


Last Night

by Teland



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Banter, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dogboys & Doggirls, Families of Choice, First Time, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Kink Negotiation, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Magic, Prostitution, Pseudo-Incest, Romance, Spanking, Telepathy, intercrural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7903786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos's jaw drops — and then he blinks and looks thoughtful. "I honestly can't decide which part of that was the *most* deviant."</p><p>"Definitely the part where I'm lusting for you and your mother for the same reasons." </p><p>"I didn't say I wanted your help!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I think you'll find that this establishment has much to recommend it.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Promotion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4266297) by [Teland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland). 



> Disclaimers: Not mine, except for what is.
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: Vague, AU-ized mentions of S2 storylines. Nothing to be concerned about. Takes place pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: My anxiety was beating me up, so I decided to soothe myself with a remix of The Promotion. You *don't* have to read that one first.
> 
> Acknowledgments: Much love and gratitude to Pixie, Melly, Spice, Houndstar, Aleksa Kai, and, of course, my Jack for audiencing, encouragement, hand-holding, helpful suggestions, and keeping me on the curvy and wide.

It's not one of Treville's usual brothels. It's not — 

He's trying to be a little better than that, tonight, if not cleaner. 

Treville is going to be thirty-eight in just a few months, and Laurent hasn't *quite* said it aloud — yet — but time is running out for Treville's *usual* everything. 

No more carousing like an idiot. 

No more *anything* like an idiot. 

And no more running after boys — or men. 

*Laurent* has been the Captain for almost *fifteen* years now, and while he just hasn't slowed down all *that* much...

It's time to put Fearless away, as far away as Treville can *shove* him, so that, between him and Laurent, they can build a *Captain* Treville. 

Treville resists the urge to spit. The rugs in this sitting room aren't that lovely or well-maintained, but they've still done nothing to deserve it. 

And the procurer is waiting for him. 

Waiting — 

Well. 

*Not* waiting for Fearless, and *not* waiting for Treville. 

Waiting for the middling tall, well-dressed gentleman he's glamoured himself into. 

He's taking no chances. 

None whatsoever. 

"And what is sir looking for this evening?" 

Treville scans the room again, looking for — 

Well, that's just it. 

There are plenty of likely boys here. One of them's even a honey-blond, with dark freckles scattered over his nose. 

There's absolutely nothing wrong with what this brothel has to offer. 

He just wants to be here as himself. 

He just wants to smile, and smirk, and ask for the mouthiest lad in the place — 

He just — 

"Sir...?"

And maybe he should just go home and drink. 

Maybe — 

Hell, he could go back to the garrison — Laurent's *bound* to still be there — and they can reminisce — 

They can be old men together, and find comfort — 

And then — a boy pushes in the door. 

He's tall, and dark-skinned, and his hair is a cloud of soft-looking curls, and his eyes are. 

Are.

"Sorry. Pierre, I know I'm late but my classes —" 

"That's the third time this month, Porthos. I *don't* run a charity here. Consider your pay docked." 

The boy winces — 

Flushes pink —

His mouth is the same as.

His *ears* are the same as —

And Treville has to stop — staring. Has to get privacy. Has to — "Pierre. I'll take Porthos." 

"Sir? We have many fine boys —" 

"Him. And your best suite, for the whole night," Treville says, and drops — too much money on the desk. He can't stop himself.

He can't. 

A part of him is only *howling* — 

*Most* of him is *strangling* that part — 

The rest... is doing its level best to keep him from looking *too* suspicious as the boy — *Porthos*, and she had — 

Amina had *named* him — 

Oh, *Amina* — 

No, tamp it down, tamp it *down* — 

"Very well, sir. It will just be a moment while the suite is prepared for you. Perhaps you'd care to get acquainted with Porthos while you wait?" 

He wants *privacy* for that — no. He nods, looking right into Porthos's eyes. 

Porthos gives him a steady, *steely* once-over — and then a creditably professional smile. "I'll get us some wine, sir — or would you prefer something stronger?" 

Treville's throat is dry as cracked hardpan. "Wine would be entirely agreeable, son." Shit —

Porthos's eyebrow quirks for that — but he doesn't say a word before he gestures Treville to one of the free couches. 

Treville perches on it like it's the hardest of wooden stools. He — 

He doesn't want to let Porthos out of his *sight* — but he's only going to the bar, which is at the far end of the sitting room. Not *overly* well-stocked — this place isn't generous with its wine or spirits — but, still, Porthos brings a bottle and two glasses. 

Money pays for some things. 

Porthos sits close and pours neatly. "What would you like me to call you, sir?" 

Treville stares *hard* — 

"Or we could skip that —"

"Just... until we have privacy." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows and smiles. It's a real smile. It's — "You have a name you want to trust me with — but not the rest of the complete strangers?"

And Treville wants to tell him about his mother's sense of humour, his mother's *wicked* sense of humour, his mother's *laughter* — 

"Uh — sorry about that —" 

*Shit* — "You've nothing to apologize for, son. I enjoyed that a great deal," Treville says, knowing that sounded like a *lie* — he shakes his head. "I'm — out of sorts." 

Porthos nods as if he understands and sets his wine down. He'd barely taken a sip. "We can talk about that, if you like." 

Treville smiles. "Did you want to take my troubles on those broad shoulders of yours...?"

Porthos winks at him. "All in the job description, sir." 

Treville laughs and — stares. Just stares. 

Porthos raises those eyebrows again. "Or you could ask me questions, sir... maybe think about things you want..." 

Do you feel me, yet, son?

Do you feel the *bond* *between* us. 

Do you feel — "Have you been working here long?" 

"Mm? Six months, just about. I do guard duty on the weekends when they need another strong arm or two, but this pays better." 

Treville grins. "It always does, ultimately." 

"Spoken like a man who's subsidized the careers of a few whores in his lifetime..." And Porthos *waggles* his eyebrows — 

Treville laughs — 

"*That's* better —"

"I like your sense of humour, Porthos." 

"Do you, then? Going to make me talk all night?" 

The coil of heat low in his belly — is horrifying. It doesn't *belong* — 

"'s what I *thought*," Porthos says, laughing hard and topping off Treville's glass. 

Treville *drinks* — 

Porthos tops him off again — 

Treville *drinks* — 

And Porthos snorts hard and tops him off again. "You drink like a *soldier*, sir. Are you sure I shouldn't get you something stronger?" 

"Definitely not," Treville says, laughing ruefully and wiping his mouth. 

"You — but there *is* something about you..." 

Oh. 

"Something... you don't walk like a *merchant* — uh. Sorry, sorry, never mind —" 

"I'm a soldier, son. And I can't say more than that until we're alone —" 

"You don't *have* to —" 

"But I *want* to," Treville says, and *looks* at Porthos. Tries to — no. No. He doesn't push. He doesn't *will* anything. 

He won't. 

He *won't*. 

Porthos frowns. "Uh. Do you mind if I ask *why*?"

Treville smiles ruefully. "Not at all, son. I'll tell you everything —" 

"Upstairs, right. You *know* you're talking like you actually *know* me or something, and that's not *possible*." 

Treville — gives up. A little. He makes his eyes gleam, for Porthos's eyes alone. "I think we both know that a lot of things are possible, son." 

Porthos's eyes *widen* — but only for a moment. "I *thought* I could feel — but — is *that* why you wanted me, sir?" He leans in. "I'm not — I'm not a *strong* witch —" 

"You haven't come fully into your power. You..." Treville rumbles. "I know you, son. I know you — and we'll talk." 

"Right, fine, I'm just going to assume you know one or more of the witches who *raised* me —" And Porthos knocks back his own wine. "And I'm going to get docked for that, too, so you better tip." 

Treville snorts. "You have no idea." 

Porthos gives him a *confused* look for that — 

Treville gestures for peace — 

And then one of the message boys comes jogging over. 

Their suite is ready. 

Their —

And Treville lets himself *touch* Porthos for the first time since he'd tucked the babe he was away in his crib before leaving for that *damned* mission. 

Before leaving his Amina-love alone. 

All he's doing is cupping Porthos's strong arm, but it feels like — so much. 

It feels like — 

"Uh, sir? Are you growling?" 

"Perhaps a little." 

"Right, just checking." 

It feels like everything.


	2. Really, it was either this or carry him home in his jaws immediately.

Once they're in the suite, Porthos examines things for himself. He neatens the bed — 

He closes the curtains to the one window that much more tightly — 

He straightens the chairs — 

And then he looks round and nods with grudging approval. 

"Yes, Porthos?" 

"A man ought to get what he pays for," he says, and pours more wine — for Treville. 

Treville takes it gratefully, but — "Pour more for yourself. You're going to need it for this tale." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "You don't want me to strip down first? Maybe wash up a bit? I've been studying all day, and those classrooms are *ovens*." 

Unbidden, Treville's mind is taken *over* by a fantasy of tasting the dried sweat on Porthos's neck. It — 

Porthos grins and reaches up for the laces on his shirt. "'s what I *thought*. We've got all night to talk. Why don't you show me that soldier's body, eh?"

Treville grunts — 

*Sweats* — no. *No*. He crosses the room and *stops* Porthos's hands on his laces. 

He holds them *still* — 

They're almost of a *height* —

And Porthos looks up that little distance and licks his lips. "No, sir? That's not what you want?" 

Treville opens his senses — and, yes, there *are* spyholes into this room, but Porthos had blocked them with the chairs. 

Good boy — 

Brave boy —Treville drops his glamour — 

"*Shit* —" 

"Shh. Do you... recognize me?" 

Porthos blinks and flushes. "I don't — I don't *know* you. I've never *seen* you. But..." 

Oh. "'But', son?" 

"There's something. About you..." 

"You feel like you *should* know me." 

"Not — not *should*. I feel like I *do* know you, like I've known you my whole bloody — explain!" 

Treville growls. "Does it *help* to know that I'm a *Musketeer*, son. That I... your mother and I were very close," Treville says, and his voice is — failing him. Just — 

"Oh — shit. Shit. She said. She said the man she loved — the man who was *stolen* from her by — some kind of dark *magic* — *shit*. Are you my *father*?"

Treville pants, and squeezes Porthos's hands. "Not by blood, son. I killed that man." 

"What — *what*?" Porthos shakes his head and stares, yanking his hands away and backing up two steps — 

Knocking into the *table* — 

Treville tries to close the distance again — 

"Bloody *stop*!" 

Treville inhales — and stops. Raises his hands. 

And Porthos starts to pace. 

Treville keeps him in his *sights* — 

"She told me — she told me she had friends who were her brothers." 

"Yes. Three of us, and one more who she wasn't as close to." 

"She — described two of them really well. One of them tall, with fox-red hair, and a lot of jokes, who was always running after pretty girls, but who was still really respectful." 

"Reynard. He's mad as a hatter, but he loved your mother. He's my brother, and one of my loves. Your Uncle."

Porthos makes a hurt sound — "And the *really* tall one? The really *big* one, who's just covered with hair, and laughs like a rockslide?" 

Treville smiles helplessly. "Kitos. The most cuddly man on the planet. He *also* loved your mother dearly —" 

"And he's your brother and your love?" 

Treville nods. "And your Uncle." 

Porthos gives him a bruised look. "I was raised — mostly by the death-mage my mum worked for while she still could. She still takes care of me, from time to time." 

"I owe her everything." 

"Because I'm — no. What *am* I to you?" 

"You're my son," Treville says, and closes his hands into fists.

"But you just said —" 

"Your mother and I were bound magically, while you were still in the womb, son. She and I... she was my *wife*." 

Porthos grunts and rears *back* —

And Treville takes another deep breath and tries to — slow down. Just — 

Porthos is *searching* him — 

His beautiful brown eyes are so *wide* — 

So hungry for *answers* — 

And maybe he shouldn't slow down, at all. "Your blood-father was the son of the Marquis de Belgard. He would've been the Marquis now if I hadn't killed him —" 

"But *why* did you —" 

"Because, instead of putting your mother aside when she became pregnant, or even after you were born, he hired a magic-immune assassin to murder you both. Your mother's guardian Ife — an earth-mage like us — had a prophecy that your lives would be in danger long before this, but couldn't ever get anything specific. That's *why* your mother and I were bound — so I could be your protector.

"It didn't work that way. I — and our brothers — were sent out of the country on a mission. Belgard had the assassin strike then, and..." Treville growls." Your mother fought the assassin off herself, but couldn't kill him while still protecting you. She ran, and instead of running to her guardians — she wanted to protect them — she ran to a death-mage they never would've recommended. I pieced all of this together later, after. After I was led to your mother's body. Almost certainly by *your* death-mage." 

"*Shit* —" 

"Guillou — the death-mage your mother ran to — cheated your mother of her life in a 'bargain' that was... an obscenity. And then, to protect himself, he made it impossible for her to talk to anyone about her past. There was no one she could go to for help, or even vengeance. And she — and you — were completely hidden from all of us."

Porthos swallows and sits down in one of the chairs, careful even now not to move it. 

Treville crouches in front of him. Not too close. 

"She... she was so *tired* at the end..." 

"I felt that." 

"You — you did?" 

"We were blood of each other's blood. I felt everything. I just couldn't *find* her. Even after I made powerful allies who could help me piece all of this together." 

Porthos frowns. "You felt her die." 

Treville nods. 

"You felt — what did you do?" 

"Gave Reynard two black eyes and re-broke Kitos's nose as they tried to hold me — I went mad. Mostly because I knew — I could *feel* — that *you* were alone." 

"Oh."

"I healed them —" Treville shakes his head and reaches out — 

"Is that — is that how you found me? By feeling me?" 

"No, son. *Now* you could be across the city from me and I could point to where you were — and track you. Though I don't want to take the risk. But *before* we actually locked eyes on each other..." Treville shakes his head. "I could *feel* you, but you could've been anywhere, at all." 

"So you just... came here to get a *boy*?" 

Treville smiles wryly. "Probably for the last time. I'm soon to be promoted."

"Uh. To *what*?"

Treville stands, backs off a step, and bows with a flourish over the hat he isn't wearing. "Lieutenant Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville of the King's Musketeers, at your service. My Amina-love's — and my — eldest brother, Captain Laurent d'Achille de la Fère of the King's Musketeers, means to make me his successor *soon*." 

"Love — um." And Porthos's eyes are wide and curious again.

Treville crouches once more. "Ask anything. Ask everything." 

"You like boys..." 

"*Very* much. I *love* men — and I've loved two women very much. Your mother was one of them." 

"Right, but did you love her..." And Porthos gestures with his eyebrows up. 

Treville laughs and grins. "Yes. Though..." His grin turns rueful. "Not enough for either of us, I'd say." 

Porthos licks his lips. "Did you just not meet her before — before Belgard did? I mean, I *know* you're gentry, *too*." 

"When Belgard snatched your mother up, Amina and I were friends. *Chaste* brother and sister. I... it was before we were bound, and before we were made into shifters —" 

"My mum was a *shifter*?"

Treville growls. "She never got to *complete* her shift. At first, because she was pregnant with you, and then because she was healing..." Treville shakes his head. "The theory is that the spells Guillou wove round her... blocked her. Or blocked her *while* sapping her." 

Porthos growls — 

"My sentiments exactly, son. She might've been able to *get* to us if she could shift." 

"Because... Guillou wouldn't have been able to get to her thoughts, then?" 

Treville smiles helplessly. "Exactly." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "What... did you kill him, too?" 

"Messily, son." 

Porthos licks his lips again. "You tortured him." 

Treville nods once. "Not over a great deal of time, as these things go, but... yes. And then, with the help of a friend and ally, I imprisoned his soul in my rapier. He's going to scream for a very long time." 

Porthos *blinks* — 

*Looks* at the rapier in question — 

*Squints* at it — "It's glamoured..." 

"That it is." 

"It's... what does it *really* look like?" 

"Can you suss that out for yourself, son?" 

"I..." Porthos frowns and cocks his head to the side, reaching out — 

"No, son, you can't touch it to make it easier." 

"Damn, uh..." He frowns harder and takes deep breaths — 

Focusing breaths —

"Oh, that's good, son, keep doing that..." 

Porthos nods and breathes and — his pupils dilate just a little — 

His power *flares* — 

And he rears *back*. "*Shit*. That looks — that looks like — *death*." 

"Well. That's because it *is*, son," Treville says, and smiles wryly. "I expend a small but significant amount of power to keep the blade from draining and killing everyone it touches incidentally, and I never — ever — spar with steel." 

"Bloody *hell*, sir..."

And that. "Is that... what you want to call me?" 

"Uh. What do *you* want me to call you?" 

The smile on Treville's face — he knows exactly how pained it is. "You would've been a Treville. I'd like for you to be a Treville *now*." 

"Uh. You don't *know* me —"

Treville holds up a hand. "You're my son, and I have every intention of giving you the best life you *let* me give you." 

Porthos stares down at him. 

Treville raises his own eyebrows. 

"You..." 

"Yes, son?" 

And then Porthos is snickering *hard*, covering his mouth with one hand and wrapping the other hand around his belly. 

Treville blinks. "Share the joke?" 

"You have to — you have to at least let me bring up another boy for you, sir — get your money's worth, and all —"

And Treville *wants* to splutter for that. He *really* does. He — 

He's not. 

He's staring at his son. 

He's staring at the sparkle in his wide, beautiful eyes — 

He's staring at his wild, dirty grin — 

He's staring — and there isn't a single soul in this room — including the dog which is probably growing inside Porthos, *too* — who doesn't know what he's thinking.

"I — yeah," Porthos says. "'s what I thought. You — you've *been* looking at me like that —"

Treville turns away.

"Um. *Am* I your son?" 

No — and Treville is up just that fast, *pinning* Porthos back against the chair by his shoulders — 

His broad *shoulders* — 

His — 

"*Fuck*, you're *strong* —" 

"Shifters always are, *son*." 

"Look —" 

"When your mother and I would share a bed, I would do everything in my *power* to convince her to let us sleep face-to-face so I could feel you kick in the night." 

"Fuck — I — what?" 

"When you cried — and you cried like a *demon* — I would rest you on my chest and rumble to soothe you, and just for the sheer joy of holding you —" 

"But I was a *baby* then —" 

"I fell in love with you when you were that special scent my Amina-love had, that scent that meant *we* were going to be parents, and I. I didn't mean to say that." 

"Uh." 

"I've missed you so bloody *much*!" 

"I get that!" 

"Do you? Do you understand what it means to have your family ripped away from you — but to still be able to *feel* them? To know they're *hurting* and be able to do *nothing*?" 

Porthos stares up at him with his lips parted, his eyes *wide* — "I — I. Just. My mum..." 

Treville snarls — "I would never denigrate your *pain*. We lost her *together* —" 

"Yeah — *yeah* —" 

"But I was already mad without you both. I was already. Do you know how binding works, son? Do you know what they did to us?" 

"You — it was blood-magic. They — they would've taken your fluids, and hers —" 

"Yes. Yes," Treville says. "She was everything. A drop of her sweat could drive me *wild*. She was the blood in my *veins*. And. So are you."

Porthos makes a small, hurt noise. "Doesn't. Doesn't that mean you're the blood in *my* veins?"

The urge to lean in — 

The urge to grip, to touch, to grip and *take* — 

Treville snarls again and pulls *back* — 

Porthos gasps — and grips the arms of the chair. He's hard. He's *hard* — he's young. 

Treville can't — "You mustn't — you mustn't try to convince yourself —" 

"'s not what I'm bloody doing!" 

"Then... what?" 

"I don't know! What — what *is* this?"

Treville opens his mouth — closes it. "I — can't answer that." 

"You don't know?" 

"I — all I know is that I'm hungry for you, son. I want — I want everything," Treville says, and he's losing control of his voice again. Of — everything. 

"Uh. Do you... have other children? With... that other woman?" 

Treville shakes his head once. "She's — the Comtesse de la Fère. Laurent's wife Marie-Angelique. My sister." 

"And *not* your blood-sister?"

Treville coughs. "I — it's fair that you're asking that question, son —" 

"I bloody know!" 

"We're not related, no. She's a Leandres." 

"Right, all right. Is she — um. And you're *positive* that any children she has aren't yours?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I would've felt them growing in the womb. Like you." 

Porthos blinks and blinks and — shakes himself precisely like Treville's son. 

Treville rumbles and *flares* — 

"Oh — shit. I *get* that that was really attractive to you —" 

"I know you're not... teasing me." 

"*Do* you." 

"Yes, son. You're not that kind of boy. Are you." 

"Not unless you *pay* me for it!" 

Treville laughs hard — 

"But — she has kids?" 

"Two sons. The eldest is around your age —" 

"And you helped raise them?" 

"I'm their godfather —" 

And Porthos raises his eyebrows and lowers his chin. Pointedly. 

Treville coughs. "Son, I — I *haven't*." 

"But have you bloody *wanted* to?" 

"I — will admit to a certain —" 

"Oh my *God* —" 

"You need better oaths —" 

"*Sir*."

"I — can we talk about that?"

"You're a bloody *deviant*." 

"Well... that I am."

"You're not going to fight that, at all?" 

Treville makes a show of looking around at their surroundings — 

Most pointedly at the *large* bed — 

Porthos snickers. "But *you're* giving this up for the *straight* life." 

Treville groans and goes to sit down on the bed — after carefully resting his belts and rapier well away from where they can do any harm. "Don't *remind* me. I'm going to spend the next fifteen to twenty years pinning my *cock* back for the good of the regiment — and France as a whole, of course." 

"Right, *that*." And Porthos grins ruefully, easily. "Come on, you don't — I'm a *whore*. What are you going to do with a whore for a son — wait, I don't know if I want you to answer that question," Porthos says, and guffaws. Just like his mother. Just —

Treville drinks it in. 

"For fuck's sake, don't tell me *that* noise got you hot!" 

Treville grins. "Your mother made it for me all the time." 

Porthos's jaw drops — and then he blinks and looks thoughtful. "I honestly can't decide which part of that was the *most* deviant."

"Definitely the part where I'm lusting for you and your mother for the same reasons." 

"I didn't say I wanted your help!" 

Treville snickers hard — 

"You're an *arsehole*." 

"That I am, son. And I'm happier than I've been in years." 

"I." 

"Mm?" And Treville leans back on his elbows. 

"You're happy... even all the way across the room like that?"

And, for a moment, all Treville can do is stare. 

Right at the pulse pounding in Porthos's strong throat. 

Right at the flush in his *cheeks* — 

He's still *hard* — 

But. "Don't do that, son." 

"Why don't you tell me what you want me to call you, sir."

"Don't —" 

"Why don't you show me what kind of son you want..." 

And — there is only one way to answer that. Treville *reaches* for his son, brushing aside the ragged remains of the walls between them easily — 

(What I what is that — *Treville*?) 

We've been connected since before you were capable of thought, son. Are you really surprised I can do this?

Porthos *grunts* — 

Draws back just a little — 

*Tries* to hide his thoughts — 

Treville doesn't let him — and he shows absolutely everything of himself . 

(You — you *want* me!) 

Of course I do. You're beautiful in every way you've *shown* me, son — including the *practicality* you've shown me. You *don't* need to buy insurance with me by letting me fuck you — but I appreciate a pragmatic boy. 

Porthos gives him a wounded look — and immediately stops trying to hide. 

And *starts* trying to *push* himself — 

Oh... 

You *want* to want me...

(*Yes* — *more* — I — you've already got me *hard* —) 

Tell me why, son. *Show* me why — 

And, in answer, Porthos gives the *feel* of Treville's emotions back to him. The feel of his *passion*. (You're not even bloody trying and you're *seducing* me!) 

Treville blinks — 

(Did you not bloody *realize*? What the sodding hell do you do on a daily basis when boys are *flinging* themselves at your cock?) 

I — catch them, mostly, but — 

"I want," Porthos says aloud, and pants.

Treville sits up and grabs the bedpost. "What do you want. Tell me." 

"I want to know what it feels like when you actually *do* mean to seduce someone. Me. When you mean to seduce *me*." 

Treville's nostrils flare. "Porthos..." 

"I know you can do it. I know you *want* to do it —" 

"I —" 

"So — please. Let me feel." 

"I need to take you *home* with me!" 

"I'll *let* you. I'll — fuck. It's not like I wasn't going to try to be a Musketeer *anyway* —" 

Treville growls low and *hard* — 

"Shit, that's hot —" 

"Son..." 

"It's just — it was her last *story*. The last thing she *said* before she fell into that final fever was that she *loved* a Musketeer. That her brothers *were* Musketeers. What else was I *supposed* to bloody do with myself?" 

"Come to me." 

"I — yeah —" 

"No. Do it now. Come to me," Treville says, and beckons.

"Oh — shit —" And Porthos almost lurches to his feet, but he's graceful as he crosses the room. And then he stops in *front* of Treville. "Should — should I —"

"Sit beside me, son," Treville says, and pats the bed. 

"Uh. Are you *sure*?" 

"I'm sure I want your beautiful mouth for *talking* right now." 

Porthos *grunts* — and sits down, nice and close. 

Treville cups his jaw and strokes his lower lip with his thumb.

"Oh —" 

"Do you like that?" 

"Yes, sir —" 

"Do you like calling me sir?" 

"I've been... um. Imagining calling you that... as you're training me." 

Treville growls again. "Then that's what you'll call me." 

"If — if you want something else —" 

"Shh. These things take time. It's better for *me* if you *want* to call me whatever you call me." 

"Oh... shit. I just. I just thought about... wanting to call you something else." 

Treville smiles and and kisses Porthos's cheek — 

Porthos inhales sharply — "I like. I like the feel of your beard. 's soft. Not like other beards."

"It's because my hair has the texture of the dog's fur, much of the time." 

"Oh — yeah?" 

"Mm-hm." 

"Can I... feel it more?" And Porthos is staring into him, wanting and — 

Treville shakes his head. "Talk first, son. *Talk*." 

"*As an aside, 's not very hard to seduce me... and that's a hint..." 

Treville laughs. "You're such an incredible boy." 

"Am I? Or do I just make you hard?" 

"You make me *happy*. And that makes me need to make *you* happy," Treville says, and strokes that lower lip again. "Tell me — or show me — how." 

And Treville's mind is full of obviously helpless images of Amina, Amina smiling, Amina laughing, Amina hugging a small Porthos tight, Amina singing, Amina *dancing* — 

Amina in her oranges and yellows -—

Amina bringing sunlight *everywhere* — 

"Yeah, I — sorry. Sorry." And Porthos ducks his head.

"Shh," Treville says, and lifts Porthos's face again. "I didn't have those images and memories before. I needed them." 

Porthos searches him — 

And Treville gives Porthos a memory of him and Amina dancing while she was pregnant, dancing with her back to his front, and their hands twined together, and his face buried in her throat — 

And really it was more a rhythmic, half-controlled sway around his bedroom in his rooms in the city than anything else, but the music was the pound of their hearts, the roar of their blood, the *braid* of their scents — 

He shares those, too — 

"Oh — fuck, that's so *intense* —" And Porthos is flaring his nostrils again and again — 

"You'll experience scents like that one day, son. It's wonderful and terrible." 

"I can imagine! I... you loved her." 

"Yes." 

Porthos nods slowly. "You were going to have a — a *family* with her. With *us*." 

"*Yes*," Treville says, and strokes Porthos's fuzzy chin. "And whatever little brothers and sisters we would've given you." 

Porthos blinks — and looks down again. He doesn't try to duck his head this time, though. 

"What is it, son?"

"I always wanted a younger sibling. I — someone to take care of." 

"You should've had a regiment of them." 

"I — I felt really guilty. I still do. For asking, I mean. I didn't realize my mum was that sick." 

"Oh, son... think."

"Mm?" 

"Think for me — and look up." 

Porthos obeys — 

"Would she want your guilt?" 

"No, but —" 

"Would she *hurt* to know you felt this guilt?" 

"Oh — shit —" 

Treville nods.

"I — fuck. That was really *efficient*, sir." 

Treville laughs. "Musketeers don't piss about, son." 

Porthos smiles at him, bright and wide and beautiful. Beautiful. 

Treville strokes over a dimple. 

"Sir..." 

"Ask." 

"Did she... did she ever talk to you about what *she* wanted me to be? *Who* she wanted me to be?" 

And that — Treville *coughs*. 

"Sir?" 

"Son... when she talked about who she wanted you to be, with me, she would say: 'Sweet brother, I will raise our son to be bold and beautiful and brave and *perfect*, *just like you*.'" And Treville smiles wryly. "And then, when I protested that, she would punch me *very* hard." 

"Uh..." 

"*Ask*." 

"Did she *know* about the boys?" 

"We talked about everything, son. *Everything*. And your mother *constantly* made *remarkably* filthy jokes about the fate of plump little boys who bent over in front of me. Or walked in front of me. Or existed in the same country as me." 

"She *did*?" 

"From the very first night we met, to the very last night we were together. She was saying again that she'd raise you to be just like me, so *I* said we'd have to hire more nimble kitchen boys... at which point she said that everything should be fine so long as I kept hiring good, *sturdy* stableboys." 

"Oh my *God*!" 

"Your mother loved me, but she also *knew* me, son. Right down to the dirtiest parts of my soul." 

"And you knew her right down to the dirtiest parts of hers?" 

Treville laughs. "She had *terrible* taste in men... but she knew how to have her *fun*." 

"Oh. Uh. Yeah?" 

"Mm. She would brutalize her men into *performing* properly for her, and then complain bitterly when they either ran away limping and whimpering, or collapsed mewling at her feet, begging for more punishment." 

Porthos's laugh is *scandalized* — 

And Treville grins. "Your mother needed *strength* — and strength of character. You have to respect a powerful woman, and understand when that powerful woman wants to be *overpowered*." 

"Oh, well, yeah." 

"Mm? You've had a woman like that, son? A girl?" 

Porthos blushes. "Yeah, um. She's a good friend. Flea." 

Treville smiles. "I look forward to meeting her." 

Porthos searches him again — and smiles. 

I want everything of you.

(And... you'll give me everything.) 

That's *right*. 

Porthos shivers and pushes that much closer. "I still want you to seduce me. I still want you to just..." 

"Just what? Mm?"

Porthos winces with lust. "Sodding run me *over*, sir. Drive me out of my *head*. I — I can *feel* you —" 

"You know I can *take* you over." 

"Yeah. I do," Porthos says, and looks at him steadily. 

"Have you liked that, son? Bending for your clients?" 

Porthos makes a face that makes him look *exactly* his age. 

Treville laughs. "All right, ask a stupid question. But..." 

"You want to know why I want it, sir?"

"I want everything of you, son. *Everything*." 

Porthos licks his lips again. "Yes, sir. I want... I'm usually the one doing the pushing. When it comes to the sex I *want* to have happen. My friends... it's not really *in* them to push *me*." 

"But you've still built yourself a little craving, son?" 

"Or. Maybe not so little," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "You — I can feel you. You know what you're *doing* —" 

"I would *never* claim that —" 

"Sir —" 

"Shh, I'm only playing," Treville says, and presses his thumb to Porthos's mouth. 

"*Mm* —" 

"Shh." 

Porthos nods. 

"Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to ask you several more questions, and you're going to answer all of them honestly and in as much detail as you can, just like the good boy you are," Treville says, and moves his thumb. And raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos moans. "Yes, sir." 

"Good boy. Good, good —" Treville rumbles. "You should know how hard you're making me, son." 

"I — I can take care of that —" 

"Shh, no. We're talking now. But you should understand how *affecting* you are," Treville says, and strokes that fuzzy chin. "I've never been immune to beautiful, smart, *giving* boys who know what they *want*." 

"But. But I don't... know *exactly* —" 

"I'm going to help you with that. I'm going to help you with everything, son." 

"Fuck — yes, sir —" 

"First question: Do you like to hurt?"

"Uh — sometimes. Some — places? Shit, that wasn't a good answer. Um — I get sensitive when I drink, you know, when I'm drunk —" 

"Are you drunk enough to be sensitive now, son?" 

"No, sir. You can — you can touch me pretty hard — and I'll like it —" 

"Everywhere, son?" 

"I —" And Porthos flushes, deeply. There are questions in *his* eyes. 

Treville nods. "You can still ask your questions, son. But I'll tell you when." 

"Oh — oh." Porthos moans again and nods. "Thank you, sir." 

Treville smiles. "You're a patient boy." 

"Yes, sir. I — you learn to be, in the Court. If you rush things... um. You don't get too many second chances." 

Treville growls. "You should've had better." 

"A lot of people should have, sir," Porthos says, and his eyes are serious and just a little hard. That... 

Treville cocks his head to the side. "You protect your own, when you can." 

"Yes, sir —" 

"That's one of the reasons why you want to be a Musketeer." 

Porthos blushes — and doesn't say a word. 

Treville raises his eyebrows — and strokes that chin again. 

Porthos inhales sharply and nods. "Yes, sir — I'm — I'm sorry —" 

"Shh. Just answer." 

"I want... to give my friends a better life. I want to — I already know I won't really be bringing the — the King's Justice to the Court of Miracles, but... I'll be stronger. Faster. Harder. Better-armed. I'll... be able to solve problems I can't solve now." 

That — Treville rumbles and rumbles. "My good boy. My strong, good boy..." 

Porthos blushes hard — 

Tries to duck his head — and looks right up again when he realizes Treville won't let him. 

"I just — I want to." 

"Find a way to make *room* for your *brothers*, son." 

"My — what?" 

"Your *brothers*. You're *going* to have them — you already have one, or will, once we all finish the job of convincing Laurent to let his son Olivier enlist as a a recruit." 

"Oh —" 

"He's a bit odd — that entire family is — but you'll like them just fine. And they'll all love you." 

"How — how do you —" 

"Shh. It's not time for you to ask questions, yet." 

Porthos closes his mouth up tight for a moment — and then nods. "I'm — I'll wait, sir." 

"Good boy. As I was saying: Make room for your brothers at your *side* when you're going back to the Court to *solve problems*. You'll be able to solve *more* problems that way, and they will be incalculably grateful." 

"It... that last part is a little hard to understand, sir." 

"Are you trying to ask a question without asking a question, son?" 

"Uhh... no? Sir." 

Treville laughs hard and kisses Porthos on both cheeks — 

"Nnh — I love the feel of your *beard* —" 

Treville *nuzzles* Porthos's right cheek — 

"Oh — oh, yeah —" 

"Shh," Treville says, and pulls back. Just far enough that they can meet each other's eyes. 

Porthos's eyes are wide. *Deep*. 

"Son. Did you think there was no loyalty outside the Court of Miracles? No love? No brotherhood?" 

"No! Not — I —" 

"Then you thought there was none for *you*." 

Porthos blushes *hard*. "I don't — I don't *know* anyone — except you —" 

"You have Uncles, son. And an Aunt —" 

"Right, but —" 

"Shh," Treville says, and grips Porthos's chin firmly for just a moment. 

Porthos frowns — and then nods. 

"Good boy. Good boy. It takes a lot for a man to understand that he has a family he'd never had *before*. Doesn't it." 

"*Yes*, sir —" 

"Shh. One moment," Treville says, releasing Porthos and working off the thick, silver ring his father had had made with their crest. 

"What — what —" 

"You're a big boy, son — with hands just about as big as mine." 

"What are you —" 

"Shh," Treville says, and uses his *power* to work the ring off. "This? Is yours now. It's yours because you *are* a Treville, and have always *been* a Treville, and will always *be* a Treville — don't interrupt just yet." 

"*Fuck* — yes, sir —" 

Treville smiles, and takes Porthos's right hand in his own. "It's yours for the rest of your life — or until you have a boy of your own who's old enough to know his own mind as well as you do." 

Porthos shivers — 

"Son..." Treville shakes his head and slips the ring on, holding Porthos's hand as it shakes, using his power to *tighten* the ring just a little — 

Just enough — 

"Son. I don't think I said this clearly enough, before: This is yours, the family is yours, *everything* is yours, even if *this*," Treville says, and squeezes his hand firmly before letting go, "is the very last time we touch." 

"Oh — I — *sir* —" 

"There's a world waiting for you, son. It's bigger than what you've seen, and I know you already know that, because you *are* a smart boy, but I promise you that it's also bigger than what you've imagined. And I'm going to make sure that you have it all. Now. It's time for talk — and questions." 

"It — is?" 

"Yes, son," Treville says, and smiles softly. "But first one more from me: Are you *quite* sure you want to make love tonight? Think hard. And remember that I want, more than anything else, to be good to you." 

Porthos looks down at their joined hands for a long moment — 

Looks at the *ring* — 

Frowns and looks *up*. "I feel like you just married me, sir." 

Treville coughs, but — "Well. I couldn't risk you getting away from me, son." 

Porthos snorts and grins — and blushes. 

"What's that about, hm? Ask me everything." 

"I want. I want to *know* everything." 

"I'll tell you —" 

"My friends... um."

"Yes?" 

"They'd tell me to test you," Porthos says, and twines his fingers tighter with Treville's. "To — make you take me to your home, and give me things, introduce me to people... I don't even know. *Test* you." 

"We can do that," Treville says, and squeezes Porthos's hand. "I want you to be comfortable." 

"That wouldn't make me comfortable." 

Treville raises his eyebrows. 

"I wish — no. No, I do know what would make me comfortable," Porthos says, and laughs ruefully. 

"You know and you don't like it much." 

"No, I —" He shakes his head. "It makes me feel like an *idiot*." 

Treville cups Porthos's face with his other hand. "You could never be that." 

"I have my doubts about that, sir! I — I just want you to go back to *seducing* me, and — and making me answer *your* questions, and. Making me bend."

Treville — should've seen that coming. He — "That's not going to help you think very clearly, son..." 

"*No*. It *won't*," Porthos says, and laughs painfully. "But... it'll make me comfortable."

Treville winces and strokes Porthos's cheek — 

Squeezes his hand — 

*Frowns* — 

"*You're* thinking about making me *uncomfortable*. Aren't you, sir." And Porthos grins. 

"I — that I am, son. But..." 

"You won't?" And Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

"Ask me questions. Let me... answer just a few more." 

Porthos licks his lips and nods. "You want to make me comfortable *that* way." 

"Every possible — hmm. We'll leave that for now." 

Porthos snickers. "*Right*. Is it because I was um... doubting?" 

"It's *reasonable* for you to doubt, son. I — you haven't spent the past fifteen years going mad for the memories of my scents." 

"I haven't, no. But I've always been looking for... something." 

Treville blinks. 

Porthos smiles ruefully — and looks down at the ring again. "I should be thinking about how much I could *get* for this. I should be... but I'm not. Because the second you dropped your glamour..." 

Treville inhales with a shudder — "Tell me." 

Porthos looks up. "I realized I'd been empty, sir. I realized I'd been looking for something all *along*, even when my mum was *alive*, because there was an empty space in me without — you." 

Treville growls desperately — 

*Grips* Porthos's face — 

Porthos tilts his head up for a *kiss*, but — 

But Treville has to turn his head — 

Nose in behind his *ear* and sniff — 

"Oh —" 

Lick and lick and nuzzle and *nip* — 

"Oh, *shit*, that feels *amazing* —" 

Sniff more and nose down to his throat — 

"Please! Please, sir!" 

One bite, just one — 

"*Unh* —" And Porthos is giving himself, pushing closer, giving himself *over* — 

Treville bites *harder* — 

"*UNGH* —" 

Growls and laps and laps and — 

And Porthos is *shaking* — 

Porthos's scents are *thick* with wild hunger, wild *arousal* — 

Treville sucks his way *off* — 

"*Please* —" 

Licks back to Porthos's ear — 

"Oh — fuck — *fuck* —" 

"Son..." 

"Sir, please, *please*, we can talk *later*, all you *want* — I'll *do* anything you want —" 

"Shh. I'm going to make you spend. And then we're going to talk a little more about *exactly* what you want..." 

Porthos grunts and *bucks* — 

"That's it, son. You know I'll take care of you," Treville says, and starts opening Porthos's trousers one-handed. He wraps the other arm around Porthos and holds him *tight* — 

"Fuck — *fuck* — I want you to do *everything* —" 

"You don't know that, yet, son. But we'll figure it out," Treville says, and squeezes Porthos through his damp breeches — 

"*HNH* —" 

"So sensitive. So *close*. You're making me hungry, son..." And Treville laps and laps and *laps* at Porthos's ear while he's getting the breeches open — 

While Porthos moans and *shudders* — 

And then the breeches are open and Treville is *not* yanking them out of the way — 

He's being just a *little* more careful than that — 

He's *working* that thick cock and those big, heavy bollocks out into the air — 

"Sir — *sir* —" 

"Oh, son... look how perfect you are..." 

"Please, sir — please, sir, 'm so *hard* —" 

"For *me*," Treville says, rumbling and *gripping* that cock — 

"Oh, *fuck*, sir, *yes* —" 

"Say it." 

"I'm hard for you!" 

Treville starts to stroke, nice and hard, nice and *rough*, getting all of his calluses *right* into it — 

"Oh — oh, *shit*, sir!" 

"Do you like that, son?" 

"I love it!" 

"When I was your age, I would've done *truly* godawful things to get another soldier's hands on my tackle..." 

"Unh — *ungh* — you — didn't have?" 

"No, son. But I picked up as many *hard*-working men as I could," Treville says, and strokes fast, *fast* —" 

"*Shit* — fuck — I won't — I won't *last*!" 

"No, you *won't*," Treville says, and nips Porthos's *ear* — 

"*Fuck*, sir!" 

"You'll spend for me..." 

"I will! I will, sir!" 

"You'll give me your pleasure, and your spend, and all of your delicious *scents*." 

"Fuck fuck — I can't — I can't stop —" 

"You can't stop working your hips, son?" 

"Nuh —" 

"You can't stop fucking my fist?" 

"No, sir, no, sir —" 

"You know I love it, don't you?" 

"*Please*, sir!" 

"You know I need your hot, slick, *thick* cock *pounding* my fist —" 

"*UNGH* —" 

"You know —" 

"*SIR*!" 

And his scents change, deepen, *sweeten*, just that little — Treville growls and bites Porthos's throat *hard* — 

Porthos grunts and *howls*, short and *sharp*, and his spend arcs high into the air before spattering the floor. 

Treville moves his other hand and catches the rest of the spend, takes it — 

*Takes* it — 

*Sucks* Porthos's throat — 

His son — 

His beautiful *son* — 

And now he's groaning and panting, throwing his head back and letting his legs splay — 

Good boy — 

Good *boy* — 

(Yes, sir, please, sir, please keep *touching* me —) 

Treville breaks the bite to lick Porthos's face and throat, his jaw and collarbone — My pleasure, son. 

He strokes that cock gently with his sticky hand — 

Just a few slow, easy pulls to keep it from feeling lonely — 

Porthos laughs breathlessly and turns enough to — lick Treville's tongue. His eyes are wide. "Is that... right?" 

Treville licks his lips and *gleams* at his beautiful, perfect boy...

"Oh — shit —" 

And then he grins and *puts* Porthos down on his back on the bed. He's still hanging half-off the thing, but it's *better* with him down there — 

"Oh, *is* it?" 

And Treville can lick his hands clean in peace. 

"You could've just *said* —" 

"Mmm," Treville says, noncommittally. 

Porthos snickers hard. "D'you mind if I get further *on* the bed?" 

Treville sucks his fingers — 

Slurps — 

Considers — 

"Also — you're *completely* fine with sucking up your son's spend, aren't you?" 

Treville tugs his fingers out and *helps* Porthos get further onto the bed — 

"You're so bloody *strong* —" 

"And I will *continue* showing off for just as long as it makes your beautiful cock twitch, son —" 

Porthos *coughs* — 

Treville grins — and lets it become rueful. "I had a *few* moments of horror when I noticed myself getting hard for you, son — I knew who you were from the moment our *eyes* met —" 

"*Really*." 

Treville kneels between Porthos's thighs. "Which part of that was surprising?" 

"I — you just seem to take all your deviance in *stride*, sir. You *admitted* to being hot for your godsons who you helped *raise*." 

"But that's just it, son. I *did* help raise them. They were *there*. I didn't have countless *fantasies* of raising them. I didn't *dream* of the perfect family we'd make together. I didn't —" 

"Well..." 

"Mm?" And Treville raises his eyebrows and rests his hands on his thighs. 

"Maybe that's *it*, then, sir," Porthos says, and his eyes are wide and earnest.

"Maybe...?" 

"Maybe you spent so long dreaming up the perfect life with the fantasy of me that the *real* me *had* to hit you... harder." 

"Harder than you would've done otherwise, you mean...?"

"Well, yeah —" 

"No, son," Treville says, and smiles wryly. 

"Sir —" 

"*You* always would've hit me just that hard. You're just too big, too honest, too bold, too generous, too loving and giving and —" Treville rumbles and lets his nostrils flare as Porthos shivers.

"Sir..." 

"Yes, son. The answer is yes. Everything about you may as well be designed to drive me up a *tree*. Though I will say that the fact that you *are* my son is probably making things that much more... heated." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"I *am* exactly that much of a deviant, and while I still pretended I wasn't the first few times I tossed myself off to dreams of Olivier... by the time I was tossing myself off to dreams of his little brother Thomas, the time for pretense was done." 

"I — *fuck*." 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I *am* capable of keeping myself to fantasies and tossing, son. And that's precisely what I do." 

"And — what you've offered me." 

"I'm still offering." 

Porthos looks up at him and frowns. "I don't want you to."

"I've just made you spend. Of course you don't. But... the offer will still be open *tomorrow*."

"I think I want you to want me more than that, sir." 

"Son. I want you so much that the thought of you *leaving* me because you're uncomfortable *stabs* me. I want you so much that I would do anything to *keep you close*. I want you so much —" 

"That you'd pin your cock back?" 

"In a word? Yes."

Porthos nods thoughtfully. 

Treville *breathes* a little — 

"I liked you going just a little wild for me, sir." 

"Son —" 

"I liked you *biting* me — and not kissing me. Do you not kiss at all?" 

Treville inhales — "I kiss... when it's wanted." 

"But it's not what you want?" 

"It's not what the dog in me wants, son. The dog is always closer when I'm making love. You may find you have similar needs as you come into your own power as a shifter." 

Porthos blinks — 

And Treville smiles wryly. They both know Porthos was asking those questions to seduce more than to learn. 

Porthos blushes — and gives him a stalwart look. "You said I knew my own mind." 

"I did — and you do, to a large extent —" 

"You said we'd talk about what I *want*." 

"I —" Treville strokes his own thighs restlessly. 

"*Sir* —" 

And Treville — opens himself. *Shares* the roil of his thoughts — 

His wants, his needs — 

His fears. 

And Porthos inhales sharply and stares. "You're — that afraid of me walking away from you?" 

"Yes." 

"Of me — rejecting..."

Treville smiles ruefully. "Even that feels — too much. Too manipulative. I shouldn't have made you think about that. Not a boy as sweet and loving as you." 

"You think I won't take care of myself?" And Porthos lifts his chin. 

"I think you're exactly the kind of boy who takes care of everyone else *first*," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos blushes — and lowers his chin. 

Treville nods and smiles again — 

Strokes Porthos's cheek — 

"Beautiful. But you're showing me everything you can." 

(*Yes*! I —) 

"You're giving me yourself..." 

"I *want* to! You're a bloody deviant, but... you're so *warm*."

Treville pants. "Son. Son. You've been cold...." 

"I *have*, sir. I've been cold all the *time* —" 

"You hate it. You hate everything about it —" 

"*Yes*, sir —" 

"You want to be wrapped up tight in loving arms. Don't you." 

"I —" 

"Don't *hesitate*." 

"*Fuck* — *yes*, sir, I want to be warm, I want to be held, I want —"

"Up, up into my arms, son." 

"Oh —" 

"Come," Treville says, and beckons. 

Porthos moans and sits up — 

Kneels up and shuffles close, more hesitant than he's been all *night* — 

Treville growls and *hauls* him onto his lap — 

Squeezes him tight — 

Holds him close and sniffs and nuzzles — 

"Oh fuck sir —" 

Treville pulls him closer still — 

Tucks Porthos's head against his throat — and rumbles. 

Pets his big, beautiful boy and rumbles right into his ear — 

"Oh, sir — do you — do you even *like* —" 

"You can feel that I do," Treville says, and laps at Porthos's ear. "But I'll say it anyway: Kitos taught me to love this even more than I *needed* it. Even more than I *craved* it."

"Oh... you... you *said* he was cuddly..." 

"That I did. And your mother and I curled up with each other all the time, son. Even before we were bound." 

"And... after? You did it more?" 

Treville rumbles. "Every night she allowed it." 

"*She* didn't like it?" 

"She was uncomfortable sometimes during the pregnancy, son. She needed to stretch, have her space... so I would put her in my carriage and take her back to my rooms, so she could stretch out in my *big* bed." 

"And she liked that better?" 

"She would grizzle and fuss about the softness of the feathers — and sleep like a babe, curled right up with me." 

"Ohh..." And Porthos shares memories of being curled in a pile of blankets with Amina — 

Shares memories of how *he'd* perceived her many scents — 

Her strong arms wrapped round him —

Her low voice rumbling songs in many languages as Porthos struggled to stay awake to hear, to learn, to *remember* — 

Her laughter because she knew exactly how tired he was every *time* — 

And Treville rumbles helplessly and wallows in the memories, every one — 

Every *one* — 

"I like. I like having something to give you." 

Treville licks the space behind Porthos's ear. "Other than everything about you?" 

Porthos shivers. "You know what I mean." 

"I do, son. But I don't think you know how valuable you are." 

"I'm — I'm just —" 

"Shh." Treville *kisses* the space behind his ear — 

"Oh —" 

And then pulls back and very carefully and deliberately kisses Porthos's mouth. 

"*Mm* — mm — *mmmm* —" 

Will you kiss me back?

And Porthos kisses him almost frantically at first, trying out a half-dozen techniques in less than a minute — 

And then Treville kisses him deeply, wetly and *hungrily* — 

*Fucks* Porthos's mouth with his tongue once, twice — 

Again — 

Porthos groans and *sucks* Treville's tongue — 

He's blushing hot enough to *feel* — 

Treville pushes his hands into Porthos's hair — 

Grips and *holds* — and tugs him back. 

"I — fuck — *sir* —" 

"You're worth everything to me." 

"I can't — I can't even *see* after a kiss like — I —" 

"Does that mean you want more like that?" And Treville leans in enough to lick the corners of Porthos's mouth — 

"Nnh — fuck — I want — but *you* don't like that!" 

"I wouldn't say *that*, son. The dog in me always wants other things, but the man in me loves it — and loves making you respond like that," Treville says, and nuzzles Porthos's mouth — 

"Oh — your *beard* —" And Porthos nuzzles him back, licks his mouth, nibbles his *lips* — 

"Careful," Treville says, and draws back.

"Wh-what?" 

"Don't bite a dog unless you want to get bitten, son," Treville says, and *nips* Porthos's lips — 

"Unh — I do, I really *do* — and — other things —" 

"What other things, hm?" 

"I'm um." And *Porthos* pulls back — but only far enough to look him square in the eye. "I'm on your lap..." 

Oh... "That you are, son. Have you dreamed about... something like that?" 

Porthos winces with lust. "I have, yeah —" 

"Or maybe you were *over* the man's lap." 

"Oh — fuck — *fuck* —" 

"Were you, son?" 

"Both — both, sir —" 

Treville growls. "And what were you doing, mm? What were you doing over that man's lap." 

Porthos moans, cock jerking *nice* and hard.

"You have to answer, son. You don't get to get away from this." 

"No, sir, no, sir, I know. I. I was... taking it." 

And now Treville's cock is jerking behind far too many clothes. But. "Taking what, son?" 

Porthos licks his lips. "A. A hiding, sir. A... a really hard one." 

Treville sighs and strokes Porthos's back, and sides — 

Cups his arse — "Here, son?" 

Porthos groans and pushes back into Treville's *hands*. "Yes, sir..." 

Treville sighs and squeezes — 

Kisses Porthos's *moan* — 

Nice and hard, nice and *deep* — 

Porthos *shakes* for it — and takes it, sweet and open.

Treville growls and bites those plush lips — 

Tugs — 

Porthos groans and shakes *more* — 

And Treville noses right down to his throat and bites *there* — 

"Sir — please —" 

Treville growls again and *massages* Porthos's arse, giving his boy the *strength* of his hands — 

Letting him *feel* — 

Preparing him for what he'll *get* — 

"Oh, *sir* —" 

Treville bites him again, again — 

Moves across his throat and *sucks* his Adam's apple — 

Porthos *gurgles* for him and bucks — 

Good boy. Didn't I tell you I'd give you everything? 

"I can't — I can't *think* —" 

Treville slurps his way off —

"No — please —" 

And Treville darts back in to *bite* Porthos's throat over his Adam's apple — 

"Oh, fuck, that's so good, that's so *good*, sir —" 

You're a delicious boy, son...

"*Unh* —" 

I love to *taste* you, Treville says, and bites twice more — 

"Yes! *Yes*!" 

And then Treville laps and laps — 

Tickles at Porthos's pulse-point with his tongue — 

"Fuck —" 

Nuzzles there — 

"Oh, *sir*..." 

And, this time, Treville pulls back slowly. "We have to get more of our clothes off, son — or." And Treville raises his eyebrows.

Porthos blinks at him... adorably. 

Treville grins and strokes his face. "Son. When you've fantasized about getting your hidings... have the men giving them been dressed?"

Porthos blinks more — "Shit — no! But..." And then he licks his lips and looks dreamy. 

Treville barks a laugh. "You're thinking about it right now." 

"You can — *here*," Porthos says, and shoves a fantasy at him of Treville in leathers with a naked Porthos over his lap. The leathers aren't quite right, and the brassard is in far too pristine condition — 

Treville fixes that *right* up — and pauses. 

The Treville in the fantasy isn't wearing gloves. 

That...

"Your hands are too good, sir. Your hands are..." Porthos shakes his head and licks his lips again. "I want them on me. I want them all *over* me." 

Treville growls. "And my own clothes, son?" 

"I know you're hard under there, sir. I know that big cock of yours wants *out*," Porthos says, and grins. 

"That's not —" 

"That *is*." And Porthos waggles his eyebrows. "But maybe when you're wearing those leathers of yours it won't be...?" 

Treville grins and says *nothing* about how Amina loved his leathers, too — 

"But I heard it anyway!" And Porthos snickers and backs off Treville's lap — 

Treville stops him with a hand on his arm. "Are *you* all right with how much we're reminiscing about your mother while we do this?" 

"*Now* you ask me that? *Now*?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. 

And Porthos leans in and nuzzles him again. "You're making me feel like I had her for longer than I did, sir." 

"*Yes* — and you're doing the same —" 

Porthos pulls back and grins. "Thank you, sir." 

Treville growls. "Will you thank me every time I acknowledge the gifts you give me?" 

Porthos moans. "I — I —" 

"*Strip*," Treville says, backing off the bed and — watching. Just watching. 

"Do you want me to do it — in any particular —" 

"Fast, son. Fast and *efficient*." 

"Fuck —" And Porthos strips right down for him, throwing his clothes vaguely toward one of the chairs and then — 

And then. 

He's a big boy, and a *strong* boy. 

He's worked hard... or. 

Treville tugs him further away from the bed once he's completely naked — 

Porthos moans — 

Treville examines his honestly *powerful* musculature in the light. He makes other fifteen-year-old boys look like ten-year-olds. He...

"Sir...?" 

"Have you had... laboring jobs? Dockside, perhaps?" 

"I had a job like that last year, sir —" 

When he was *fourteen*. Treville growls and strokes his boy, eases muscles that haven't strained in months — 

He can't — 

He *wants* to — 

"Sir...? 's all right, I'm not working there anymore..." 

Treville leans in and licks Porthos's throat, his ear, his face — 

"Yes, sir — yes, sir —" 

"I won't always be able to keep you safe in the future," Treville says, stepping back and beginning to strip himself at speed. 

"No, sir, I know —" 

"But it *hurts* me that I wasn't able to keep you safe in the past. That I couldn't hold you and *cherish* you." 

Porthos moans and stares at him — 

Shifts on his big, graceful feel — 

"Sir..." 

"Ask, son. *Always* ask." 

"Do... do *you* want to give me a hiding?" 

Treville grins. "I like doing things like that *very* much... especially to boys whose arses jiggle like yours does, son." 

Porthos grunts — 

Looks *wonderfully* scrambled for a moment — 

But only for a moment. "*Sir*. Do you want to do it to *me*?" 

Treville — growls. And doesn't hide. Not even a little. 

"Oh...."

"That's right. I'd never have asked it of you. Not tonight. Not when I've only just gotten you in my hands." 

"Then —" 

"*But*," Treville says, stepping out of his trousers and breeches and crossing the room again — 

Sniffing his boy — 

Tasting his cheek — "But you know precisely how badly I need to make you lose your *mind* for me, son." 

"Nnh — fuck — you can *do* that, sir. You can do that any way you —" 

"Shh. Fathers always have to give their boys what they need, son." 

"Oh — *shit*," Porthos says, and blushes *hard*. 

"My boy..." And Treville cups his hips — 

Squeezes *hard* — 

"Oh, *sir* —" 

"You do need it, don't you?" 

"I — I —" 

"You need to *hurt*." 

"Please, sir —" 

"You need to give yourself over to someone bigger, and stronger, and *harder* than you. Don't you." 

"You're — you're hardly bigger at all —" 

Treville squeezes *harder* — 

"HNH — oh, *shit* —" 

"But I'm stronger. Aren't I." 

"Yes, sir, *yes*, sir —" 

"And you need that. For just... once in your life —" 

"More than *once*!" 

Treville growls, and the scents of need and hunger and *want* coming off Porthos rise in waves, maddening *waves* — "Son..." 

"Sir — sir, I — I don't want you to do what you don't *want* to do —" 

"But I do want to hurt you, son..."

"Fuck — oh, *fuck* —" 

Treville leans in and licks Porthos's mouth. "Do you remember, son? How it was the first question I *asked* once we got down to business?"

"Oh. *Oh* —" 

"I was thinking... mm. Rough touches to your beautiful cock. Perhaps a slap to your bollocks to make you really *feel* me —" 

"Fuck — you *can* —" 

"And, of course, I was thinking of *fucking* you hard, son..." 

Porthos shivers and groans —

Widens his stance — 

"Fuck — fuck, my *knees* are getting watery for you, sir —" 

"Are they, now." 

"Yes, sir!" 

"You want that hard fuck?" 

"I *do*, sir! Please — please give —" 

"You have to earn it," Treville says, and lengthens his tongue enough to lick the sweat off his upper lip. 

Porthos... is staring. "Sir? Sir, how do I —" 

"Tell me what you need, son. Tell me *exactly* what you need... and *take* it when I give it to you." 

"But —" 

"Shh. It's not your choice to decide what your father gives to you, son." 

Porthos's cock *jerks* — "I — *fuck* —" 

"It's not your *responsibility* to make choices like that, son," Treville says, and looks into his boy *hard*. 

Porthos's cock jerks again — and his eyes widen just... beautifully. 

So sweetly and — 

"'s... it's not my choice." 

"No, son." 

"And. And it's not my responsibility." 

"Not at all," Treville says, and strokes those hips with his thumbs. "The only thing you have to worry about right now is telling me what you need... and taking it from me when I give it to you." 

"That's... oh, sir. I..." He flushes so *deep*. 

"That's right, son. You can do it. And you *will* do it." 

And Porthos nods and tries to push closer — 

Treville lets him, nuzzling and nipping that soft mouth — 

"Sir... sir..." 

"Tell me, son. Do it." 

"I need a hiding, sir. I need you to just... make me. Make me take it. Make me — I've wanted it so *bad*!" 

"There's my boy. Good son," Treville says, and kissing him hard, lengthening his tongue in his mouth — 

Fucking him with the *dog's* tongue — 

Making him take *that* — 

Porthos shudders and sucks and moans and blushes even more deeply, even more *hotly* — 

Treville pulls back, growling and licking and walking them back to the bed — 

Nipping both of Porthos's round little ears before crawling all the way on with his back to the headboard and his legs out straight — and patting his lap. "Come on, son. Come to me." 

Porthos pants and pants and *shivers* — 

For a moment, Treville wonders if he'll need more convincing — 

But then Porthos is almost *scrambling* onto the bed, lowering himself over Treville's lap and moaning — 

Jerking and *lifting* his arse when his hard, thick cock touches Treville's thighs —

Treville pushes him *right* down again — and traps his cock between his thighs — 

"Sir!" 

Treville smacks Porthos's arse *hard* — 

"UNH — I'll spend too fast!" 

"No, you won't," Treville says, and starts smacking those cheeks in an alternating rhythm — 

"Nuh — uhn — *UNGH* — sir! Sir, please!" 

"*When* you spend, son? I'm just going to keep *going*." 

"Oh — oh, *shit*, sir!" 

Treville growls a laugh. "I'm not going to go *easy* on you, son..." 

"*Please*!" 

"You're *going* to get *exactly* what you need," Treville says, and smacks that jiggly arse harder — 

"HNH — *yes*! Sir, *yes*!" 

"I feel your big, beautiful cock leaking between my *thighs*, son..." 

"You — you — you're doing me *right*, sir!" 

Treville growls and smacks faster — 

*Faster* — 

"*Thrust*." 

"S-sir!" 

"*Do* it!" 

Porthos *pumps* between his thighs once, twice — 

Shouts — 

*Sobs* as his cock jerks — 

"Good *boy*. Don't stop. Don't *stop*," Treville says, and smacks him nice and hard, getting *all* of his *calluses* into it — 

Porthos moans — 

*Croons* — 

Treville's knot *throbs* — 

And Porthos fucks Treville's thighs fast and raggedly, fast and — 

He's crooning and *sobbing* — 

He's gripping at the *sheets* — 

His cock is spasming with practically every panted *breath* — 

He's — but. 

There's tension in him. There's — 

He's *struggling* with something. He's holding something *back*. Treville growls and *grips* the back of his neck with his free hand — "Let *go*." 

"I —" 

"*Do* it!" 

Porthos sobs and goes loose, stops *thrusting*, tries to put his head *down* — 

Treville *forces* it down — 

"Daddy..." 

Treville gasps and *grunts* — 

Porthos winces — "'m — 'm sorry, I just, I can't — I can't —" 

"*Son*. Say it *again*." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Say it again and make me *harder*." 

"*Daddy*!"

Treville *grips* Porthos's cock with his thighs — 

Porthos *whines* — 

Treville growls and spanks him hard, *hard* — 

"Yes, Daddy, please, Daddy —" 

"My boy just wants to take it..." 

"Yeah... oh, yeah — is it *all right*?" 

"It's bloody *perfect*," Treville says and *flexes* his thighs — 

"HNH —" 

— and starts the alternating smacks again, starts — 

And Porthos is crooning for him, sobbing and crooning and — "Daddy, yes! Daddy, *yes*!" 

Treville is leaking all over *both* of them — 

The fur on his belly is *soaked* — 

And Porthos is lifting up into it — 

Porthos is crooning with *tears* in his eyes — 

Tears on his *cheeks* — 

His cock is all but *trembling* — 

And Treville — can't wait any longer. 

He takes his hand off his boy's neck and sucks two fingers wet, wet as he can get them, and then he spreads Porthos's reddened arse and pushes in just deep *enough* — 

"*Daddy*!" 

"Take it, son," Treville says, crooking *hard* and going back to smacking, going back to *spanking* — 

And Porthos screams — 

*Howls* — 

Lifts his head for a *moment* before dropping it right back down and howling into the *sheets* — 

And then he's *working* between Treville's hands and his thighs, shoving into the smacks and Treville's not-slick-enough fingers and *howling* — 

Choking on it and *sobbing* — 

Treville pants and *needs*, pants and — he knows he's *sharing* his need, knows he's *giving* it to his son with everything else — "*Spend*, son! Do it for me. Do it for *me*." 

"Daddy! D-" And Porthos howls again and spurts, pushes up on his hands and spurts between Treville's thighs again and again and — 

Treville *works* that little pleasure-button, rubs it and *milks* it — 

Porthos screams like a younger boy and spurts *again* — 

The scents are *maddening* — 

The scents are everything — 

No. Not everything he wants. *Not* everything. 

Treville works that pleasure-button just a little bit more — 

Just enough to see that his boy *can't* give any more — 

Porthos slumps over his lap, body trembling even as he *croons* again — 

And then Treville pulls out slowly and steadily, wiping his hand on the rag by the bed before *cupping* that reddened, heated arse. "Son.."

Porthos croons more and lifts his *arse* — 

Treville flushes and pushes him down before his body can do anything *untoward*. But — he does need a question answered. 

He strokes Porthos's hot, slick skin — 

His back and his sides — 

His arse and his thighs — 

Porthos *spreads* his thighs just a little —

"Is that so, son? Did you want me to touch these?" And Treville cups those bollocks, which are as heavy and magnificent as the rest of Porthos. 

Porthos — moans, not croons. 

"That's right, son. You can do it. Come back and talk to me a little." 

"I — I..." 

"I know it's hard. The dog is coming out of you, a little, even though your power hasn't fully matured." 

Porthos swallows with a click and shudders. "All... all I want to do is show you my belly, my throat... lift my *arse*..." 

"The sentiments are greatly appreciated, son — and we can do that in just a little while —" 

"Please, Daddy. Please, Daddy, is it really — I can't *think* —" 

"Shh. All you need to do is answer my questions and do as you're told." 

Porthos grunts — "Daddy, 'm so hard for you, so hot —" 

"I know you are, son. I know you need to give me everything," Treville says, and licks his lips. "Do you feel how much I've leaked all over you? Did you see how big my knot was *before* we started this?" 

"Daddy... fuck, Daddy, I want — I want *everything*!" 

"Good boy. That's my good boy..." 

"Yeah — yeah —" 

"Shh. Do you want more of *this*? Do you need more of your hiding?" 

Porthos croons and lowers his head again. "Anything, anything —" 

"Shh, wait. Do you *need* it, son." 

"Oh. Fuck. Sorry, I can't *think* —" 

"It's all right, son. There's no rush."

Porthos moans and shudders. "I. I need your *cock* now, Daddy. I *thought* I'd need more of the hiding, but..." He licks his lips. "I didn't spend as fast as I thought I would." 

"You got a little caught up in your thoughts," Treville says, and pets him more. 

"Yeah, Daddy, *that*. I wasn't going to *call* you Daddy, I *wasn't*, but then I just had to, and I didn't know if it was all *right* —" 

Treville grips the back of his neck. "It's always all right. It's always *beautiful*, son. I'd prefer you not doing it where it'll get us both in hot water, but that doesn't mean I won't still be dreaming of hearing it." 

"Oh — Daddy. *Fuck*." 

"It feels good to call me that. Doesn't it." 

"*Yes*, Daddy. It feels... like I have all the things you've been trying to tell me I have," Porthos says, muttering a little and blushing a *lot*. 

Treville rumbles and pets Porthos with his free hand — 

Keeps gripping that neck — 

Caresses and *loves* — 

"Oh, Daddy..." 

"Everything is yours, son. *Everything*." 

Porthos pants. "Daddy, I'll do *anything* for you!" 

Treville growls and grips those *bollocks* again — 

"Oh — *yeah* —" 

"My big, sweet, *loving* boy..." 

"I — I — HNH —" 

And Treville holds the squeeze to those bollocks until Porthos's cock is twitching and jerking again — 

Until Porthos is panting and sweating again, fresh and *hot* — 

Until he's leaking and — 

Yes — 

Treville releases him *slowly*, knowing the blood will be rushing back — 

Porthos pants faster and faster — 

Croons — 

*Yips* — 

"Good boy —" 

And then Porthos throws his head back and *howls* again, and Treville — can't. 

He *moves* his boy off his lap and onto his hands and knees — 

He retrieves the little pot of oil from the pocket of his trousers at *speed* — but by the time he's turned back around, Porthos already has his head down and his arse *up* again. 

Porthos is already *presenting* — and Treville had asked for just that. 

Pretending otherwise would be disingenuous at *best* — but he's not going to give his boy the dog, yet. 

Not for their first time. 

"Daddy...?"

Treville crawls back onto the bed and cups Porthos's strong, lean hips, ignoring the slick, thick, fragrant spend running down the insides of his thighs for the time being.

He likes being marked by his boy. And for now —

"I'm making plans, son. The dog in me needs you just as much as the man in me." 

Porthos shivers. "Do you... do that? Often?"

"With Marie-Angelique and Reynard, yes. I do it more rarely with my other lovers. *We* don't need to do it often, at all, son... but I can feel that you want it at least once." 

Porthos croons. "I do, Daddy. I want — just everything. But especially your *animal* side." 

Treville rumbles and squeezes those hips. "You're going to get a great *deal* of that anyway." 

"I figured that," Porthos says, and laughs — 

Pushes *back* — 

"I want more. Everything. I want everything you can *give* me." 

"My boy. My *hungry* boy," Treville says, and slicks four fingers — 

"Yeah — fuck, yeah —" 

"It's time for you to start getting fed," Treville says, and slips right in with two. 

Porthos croons and drops his head — "That's good — that's good, Daddy —" 

"Just feeling me?" 

"Just — your *slick* fingers. Knowing what 'm going to *get*." 

"Really, now," Treville says, and starts to *fuck* his boy right away — 

"*Unh* — oh, *shit*, Daddy —" 

"Is this what you wanted?" 

"Yeah — *yeah* —" 

"Nice and hard?" 

"Harder — harder's good, too!" 

Treville *almost* takes that at face value, but — "Even though you're getting *pounded* with my cock soon?" 

"Oh — *fuck*. Sorry, right — *sorry* —" 

"Shh. There'll be times when I'll *just* want you to spend on my fingers, son." 

"*Really*?" 

Treville laughs. "I like fucking a willing mouth..." 

Porthos *grunts* — "Mine is very willing!" 

"Is it? Do you like getting your mouth fucked? Your *throat* fucked?" 

Porthos croons again. "*Yeah*, Daddy, and — and I've wanted it like — like *this*. With me *bent*. Fuck, your fingers are so *good* —" 

Treville growls. "You've needed a firm *hand*," he says, twisting and *crooking* —" 

"*Yes*, Daddy!" 

"You've needed to be taken *in* hand," Treville says, spreading his fingers just a little and fucking *that* way — 

"Hnh — unh — *please* —" 

"Answer, son. Answer *all* my questions." 

"I need *you*!" 

Treville's cock jerks *hard* and his belly is clenching for this, for — but. "But do you need to be taken in *hand*." 

"Yeah — fuck, yeah — hold me — hold me *down* —" 

Treville growls and *crooks* again — 

Porthos howls — 

Treville works that pleasure-button light and sweet — 

Porthos chokes and yips and howls *again* — 

"Good boy. Good *son*," he says, sweating and aching, *aching* — 

"I —" 

Treville presses *hard* —

Porthos howls *again* — 

"That's *right*," Treville says, and starts fucking his boy just a little bit harder. Only — 

Only a little bit — 

Just enough to make him grunt for every thrust — 

*Yank* at the sheets — 

Sweat and — 

"*Please*, Daddy!" 

"Please *what*." 

"Please — please don't stop!" 

Treville licks his lips — and his face. "More of this? Just this, son?" 

"Don't — the talking, the fucking —" Porthos *sobs*. "Open me *wide*." 

Treville *growls*. "Work you open for my *knot*, son?" 

"*Please*!" 

"Make you loose and sloppy?" 

"*Yes*, Daddy!" 

"Make you ache the way *I* ache?" 

"Oh — *fuck* —" And Porthos flexes open and croons, croons and wipes his face on the sheets — 

"Oh, son. The scents of you, the scents of your slick and hunger and *need* —" Treville growls. "You drive me mad. You drive me — I want to bury myself inside you and never come *out*." 

"*Unh* — Daddy, more, Daddy, give me more —" 

Treville growls and pushes in with a third finger, pushes in hard and slow and *deep* — 

"Yeah — *fuck* — oh, so *thick* —" 

"You like that, son?" And Treville starts fucking his boy *immediately* — 

"Unh — please —" 

"You like it when your Daddy fucks you wide open for him?" 

"HNH —" And Porthos clenches *tight* — 

"Oh, don't do *that*, son," Treville says, and fucks his boy *hard* — 

"*Daddy*!" 

"You know you have to open for me..." 

Porthos sobs and clenches harder — 

"Do you need your Daddy to force you?" 

"*Fuck* —" And Porthos flexes right open, he — 

His *scents* — "You liked that idea..." 

"Daddy — please, *Daddy*..." 

"You liked the idea of your Daddy being *rough* with you," Treville says, twisting and crooking all three fingers — 

Porthos *howls* — 

Treville spatters *both* of them with copious slick — 

Treville sweats and *needs* — 

Treville fucks. His. *Boy* — 

And Porthos drops his head again, stays wide open and *right* — 

Treville growls and *crooks* — 

"*Daddy*!" 

"Tell me, son. Tell me about *force*," Treville says, and fucks him more, more, opens him *incidentally* — 

Porthos sobs and *wails* — 

"*Tell* me — " 

"I'll take *anything* from you!" 

"You'll take — I need you to take *everything*," Treville growls, and crooks again —

"Fuck —" 

*Again* — 

Porthos *howls* again — 

And Treville stops crooking and spreads his fingers wide — 

Makes his son *take* it — 

Take it *all* — 

"Yes — *yes*, Daddy!" 

"You have to — to *tell* —" 

"You make me feel *safe*!" And Porthos's voice is high, cracking, *young* — 

Porthos's words are all but *sobbed* — 

"Please, Daddy, *please*, don't *stop*!" 

Because — that's exactly what he'd done. That's — 

"*Please*!" 

Treville growls and *yanks* Porthos upright — 

Porthos *screams* for the angle-change — 

"I need to *hold* you!" 

"Daddy, *anything*!" 

Treville *snarls* and *grips* Porthos round his powerful chest, holds him *up* while Porthos clutches his *forearm* — 

Holds him and *fucks* him — 

Licks his face and *ear* — 

"Daddy! *Daddy* —" 

"Do you *like* it this way." 

"I *love* it! You're — you've *got* me —" 

Treville *bites*, short and sharp, right on that strong shoulder. 

"*Please* —" 

"I won't let *go*," he says, and opens his boy fast, *fast*, *hard*. "I won't *ever* let you go!"

Porthos all but *falls* back against him and *takes* it, opening for him — 

Loosening so *perfectly* — 

"My *son*." 

"*Yours*, Daddy!" 

"*Mine* —" Treville bites and bites and — and he can't actually warn for the fourth finger, can't do anything but work it in a *little* slowly while his boy *shakes* — 

While his boy trembles and clenches and flexes and clenches and *flexes*, over and *over* — 

But — "*Open*." 

"HNH — yes, Daddy!" And Porthos is loose for him, *loose* — 

Porthos is quivering and *ready* to be opened more — 

Treville gives it to him. Treville — 

He works his boy *open*, and he kisses him — 

He works his boy *open*, and he kisses his cheek, his temples, his ears — 

He holds the dog *back* — 

"Daddy — *Daddy*...." 

"Tell me, son. Tell me what you *need*." 

"Don't — don't hold *back*. Do what — fuck — *fuck* —" 

"Do what feels right, son?" 

"*Yes*!" 

"It feels right to love you, son —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"I love you so *much*," Treville says, and rumbles and rumbles and *rocks* his fingers *in* — 

In and *in* — 

Spreads them just a little — 

Porthos croons and pants and shakes all *over* — 

"Almost, son. Almost there..." 

"*Please*." 

"It's going to be... fast." 

"*UNH* —" 

"You like that...?" And Treville licks and licks and — 

"I like — I like that you *need* it —" 

"Need you, son. Need you with every *part* of myself," Treville says, and crooks one more *time* — 

Porthos sobs and *sniffles* — 

"Son?" 

"Please — please, Daddy, I need — need to be down again..." 

Treville growls and *puts* him down — 

"*Thank* you!" 

"My *son*. My — my beautiful *boy*," Treville says, gripping the back of his neck and fucking him for just a little longer — 

Just — 

Just a little *more* — 

Porthos is crooning and *drooling* — 

Not even *trying* to slurp it up — 

Such a good *boy*, and Treville makes sure he can feel that, makes sure he can *know* it, know *him* — 

He relaxes even *more* — and Treville can't wait one moment longer. Can't — 

He pulls out, slow and steady, and Porthos tries to breathe for him, tries to — 

He's still *sobbing* — 

Grinding his *face* into the sheets — 

His boy, his *boy*, and Treville scrubs his hand with the rag — 

Oils his cock fast — 

*Strips* his cock just a little, and oils his knot, too — 

He can't keep himself from holding Porthos *open* while he does it — 

He can't keep himself from staring at that pink, puffy *hole* — 

"Daddy..." 

"I'm drooling for you, son." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"I can't wait to shove my muzzle up there..." 

"Oh — *fuck* —" 

"I'll devour you *whole*, son," Treville says, and squeezes his knot — 

*Barks* — 

Watches Porthos's hole flex and flex and — 

Treville rumbles and *pants*. "Are you *ready* for me." 

"*Yes*, Daddy!" 

"Good boy. Good — oh, son, I can't —" And Treville tries to be slow, tries to be — 

Porthos croons and croons and Treville can't manage slow at all, can't — 

He grips those hips and *shoves* in — 

Porthos *yips* — 

And Treville has to shove right in again — 

Again — 

*Again*, and Porthos is yipping and trying to ride his thrusts — Treville can't let him. Treville needs to hold him *still*, make him *take* — 

And Porthos yips again and stills himself just like that, croons and shakes and *takes* it, takes him, takes his *force* — 

He's panting and leaking slick all over the *bed* — 

Treville can *smell* it — but. "Do you *like* it." That was a growl. That — 

Porthos croons and nods and nods — 

Grips at the sheets and lifts his *arse* — 

Treville snarls and gives it to him faster — 

*Faster* — 

Porthos makes a sound like a *wounded* dog and clenches *tight* — 

"I. Didn't say you could *do* that," Treville says, and growls *hard* — 

Porthos yips and yips and *trembles* — 

*Quakes* — and flexes open. 

*Sobs* and flexes open, and the touch of his mind is heat, colours, hunger — 

So much *hunger* and *happiness* — 

Treville is sweating and growling and *gripping* Porthos's hips — 

Holding him so *tight*, and — 

"I'll give you what you *need*, son..." 

Porthos croons and *shudders* beneath him — 

"I'll — I'll give it to you — oh, son, you make me *ache*!" 

And Porthos is sobbing again, clenching *tight* for an instant before *forcing* himself to open again — 

Treville can *feel* him doing it — 

Feel him making himself so *perfect* — 

Treville is growling *constantly* — 

Fucking in and in and *in*, and his thrusts are getting shorter, harder, *heavier* — 

He's starting to *slam* in, starting to — 

"Son. Son. Are you ready for. My *knot*." 

And Porthos sobs *loudly*, begs *wordlessly* in the soul-space they share, flexes open just as wide as he *can* — 

"Oh, my sweet *boy*... I can. I can feel how *close* you are..." 

And Porthos is nodding, *biting* the sheets — 

Shaking so *hard* — 

*Crooning* and *sharing* his ache, his need, how *hard* he is, how much he wants his Daddy to keep going, keep fucking, give him more, give him harder — 

And Treville is already spreading Porthos wide, even as he tugs himself away from the almost-tidal *pull* of Porthos's flaring power — 

Already pushing *in* with his knot, and Porthos is taking him so sweet, crooning and crooning and pushing right back *on* it — 

*Rocking* right back on it, rhythmic and hot, sweet — 

So perfect, so *perfect*, and they're in time with each other, moving together and panting, sweating, slick and close, close, and Treville's knot slips a little deeper every time — 

Every — 

Every *time*, and Porthos is gasping, and Treville is growling, throbbing, *aching* — 

Pushing more, *more*, and Porthos never stops *taking* it, never stops *begging* for it with his big, beautiful, perfect body — 

Sweet boy — 

Sweet *prince*, and Porthos gasps *loudly* and *shoves* himself back — 

Takes — 

Takes *all* of him — 

Treville *snarls* and covers Porthos before he can stop himself, bites that *throat* — 

Porthos is gasping and clenching and shivering like a *horse*, and oh, *oh*, Treville is going to *ride*. 

He wraps one arm around Porthos's chest and squeezes *tight* — 

Porthos gasps *again* — 

— and Treville *grips* Porthos's thick, jerking, *slick* cock with his other hand, squeezes it *tight* — 

Porthos chokes — 

Clenches — 

*Howls* — 

And Treville shoves in, shoves in and in, *ruts* in, short and *rough*, and Porthos's howl becomes a *wail* — 

Treville *throbs* — 

He can feel Porthos's *shock* — 

He can feel Porthos's *desperate* need as Treville's knot *rams* his pleasure-button again — 

Again and *again* — 

Treville bites *harder*, but — I'll give this to you all the *time*, son!

Porthos grunts and reaches for him *inside*, *clings* to him — 

Treville *grips* his boy's spirit with every part of himself, holds it close and warm and *swallowed* even as he *rams* in — 

And Porthos chokes on another howl, chokes again as his cock spasms in Treville's hand — 

As it jerks and *spurts* — 

Treville growls *triumphantly* and breaks the skin with a bite to Porthos's shoulder— 

Takes his boy's sweet-iron-powerful *blood* — 

He *coughs* out another howl and spurts more, *more*, wets down the bed and gives himself *over* — 

So beautiful — 

So wild and bright and *warm* — 

Treville clings *tighter*, arms and teeth and *spirit*, and fucks his boy harder — 

Takes him just the way they both *need* — 

Porthos *slumps* — 

Treville growls and laps to heal the bite, laps to scar it, ease it — 

*Mark* his perfect boy — 

"Yours..." 

And Treville *slams* in, rhythm stuttering — 

Porthos's voice is so hoarse — 

So low and hungry and hoarse — 

And Porthos *laughs* hoarsely — and moans. "You've been making me — making me howl the house down, Daddy. Mm. Don't stop. Don't — just make me take *all* of you..." 

Treville growls and wraps *both* arms around Porthos's chest — 

Squeezes *tight* — 

So — 

"Unh — shit — that feels so — oh, Daddy, can you feel me blushing?" 

He *can* — 

"Can you feel me — feel me getting *hot* for you again?" 

Treville snarls and *pounds* his boy — 

Pounds him so — 

He can't stop — 

He can't slow *down* — 

"*Don't* slow down, don't — oh, Daddy, you're so good, you're so — I need you so bad, I love you, I *do* love you, you're so *good* —" 

Treville *bites* again — 

"*Yes*!" 

Howls even as he laps up more *blood* — 

"*Fuck* — I —" And Porthos clenches and *whimpers* — 

Treville slams *in* — 

*In* — 

Porthos *sobs* again — 

And Treville flushes and bites and *spurts* — 

Howls again and *spurts* and *growls*, because his knot's so swollen that it *hurts* to spend, hurts so perfectly to spill, hurts so perfectly to spill right up his son's beautiful arse — 

He can't stop — 

He can't bloody *stop*, and it's — 

"So *good*, Daddy!" 

Wonderful, it's bloody wonderful, he never wants to stop, he never — 

He can't stop *rutting* — 

He's losing his *mind* for this — 

There's no better *reason* — 

He's burning and *dripping* with sweat and there's blood in his mouth and the pleasure is wild in him, hot and wild and *complete* — 

He squeezes Porthos *tighter* — 

He can hear him *coughing* — 

He'll let him breathe soon; he will, he *will*, but — 

Just a little more — 

Just a few more *thrusts* — 

(Yes, *please*!) 

Good *son*. Good and — 

So — 

So *perfect* — 

(I'm *yours*!) 

Treville's cock spasms *again* — but this time nothing comes out. Nothing — 

And he's groaning. 

Panting. 

Lapping at the latest wound and *healing* — 

He's marked Porthos so *much*... 

(I wish I had a mirror...) 

Treville blinks — 

Unwraps his arms from around Porthos's chest — 

Porthos gasps and gasps — 

Coughs a little more — 

"Oh — *fuck*, Daddy!" 

"Son —" 

"That was bloody amazing!" 

"I —" 

"That was — that was *incredible*!" And Porthos does his best to turn his head to face him — he's grinning. "You did me *right*." 

Treville rumbles *helplessly* and strokes Porthos everywhere he can reach. 

"Oh — mm. Mmmm. Yeah, fuck, I love that, I love your hands, I love the way you *touch* me!" 

"Like a glutton, son?" 

"Only if I'm the most delicious food in the *world*. And — I want — do you..." And Porthos is blushing again. 

"Mm? What does my perfect boy want?" And Treville keeps stroking, keeps — 

Keeps *giving* Porthos to himself — 

All of his *boy* — 

"Yeah — oh, yeah, do *that*, Daddy," Porthos says, and laughs softly. "I just. The mirrors here aren't so *good*. They're all... warped. I *know* there are better ones out there —" 

"There are better ones in the rooms I keep in the city — and of course in my manor. Where would you like to go *tonight*?" 

"Oh. *Fuck*." And Porthos is blushing again. 

"You'll be living in both places — but you'll spend *most* of your time at the garrison with me, and your Uncles." 

"*Shit* — uh. You *know* I don't know how to *use* those weapons —" 

"Oh, son. Many of the men don't when they come to us." 

"I — *really*? I was saving up for — for lessons, you know — along with all the other things I was getting lessons in —" 

Treville rumbles. "Good boy. *Practical* boy." 

"*Yes*, sir — I mean —" 

"Do you want to call me sir again, son? Is that what you feel?" 

"I feel... I feel like lying right here and having you *pet* me for *years*, Daddy," Porthos says and they laugh together. 

Treville massages the back of his neck — 

Porthos croons and closes his eyes most of the way — 

"My boy. Call me what you need to call me. But you should know — any lessons you would've gotten in swordplay from anyone *other* than a former soldier would've had to be beaten out of you. We *don't* fence for *points*." 

Porthos blinks and obviously considers that. "That... makes sense." 

"Yes, it *does* —" 

"No, I mean — all kinds of men walk around with swords on their hips like they know how to *use* them, but only *soldiers* walk around like they can actually *kill* people with the swords they're carrying. It's... it's a whole different thing. I've never been able to describe it, but I could always *see* it." 

Treville — rumbles more. 

Rumbles *helplessly* — 

Strokes and cuddles his boy and — no. "Can you take kneeling up?" 

"Mm? I think so, Daddy. You want to... to hold me again?" 

Treville rumbles *more* — "I do, son. I want to hold you in my arms right up until the swelling goes down enough that we can separate and I can take you *home*." 

"Home — home. Fuck. I have to... tell my friends..." 

"I won't stop you. And they can come see you anytime they wish, so long as they don't interfere too much with the work you'll need to do." 

"Oh — they wouldn't! They know I need to work hard or else I go a little spare." 

Treville laughs. "Is that so, son? You've never been one to skive off for an hour or an afternoon...?" 

"I like to *play*, Daddy, but..." And Porthos blushes.

"My boy needs to be *productive* at least most of the time...?"

"*Yes*, Daddy. It — if you're not, you can *die*. At least in the Court," he says, and pushes up slowly and carefully, gasping and crooning and — starting to rock again. 

Starting to — 

Treville grunts as his knot swells *more* *faster* — 

More *painfully* — 

"Son —" 

"Shit — fuck — *sorry*!" 

"Shh, shh, do you need more?" 

"No, I just — you feel so *huge* in me!" 

"It's hard to stay still?" 

"Yeah — yeah, a little," Porthos says, and *obviously* forces himself to stop. He's shaking again. He's — 

"Come on, son, let me help," Treville says, and hauls him up, fast and steady — 

"*Fuck* — yes, Daddy, yes — oh, fuck, I'm not *leaking*!" 

"No, I've got you plugged up tight, son," Treville says, and pulls Porthos back against his chest — 

Porthos *groans* — 

Shudders — 

"That's it... that's it, son... just let yourself sink..." 

"Yeah — yeah, I —" And Porthos croons and throws his head back as his own weight makes him take Treville's knot that much deeper. 

And deeper — 

And — "Oh — oh, *Daddy*..." 

Treville sighs. "Better, son?" 

"Yeah — *yeah*," Porthos says, turning and nuzzling him — 

Treville licks him and nips him, nuzzles him right back — 

"Daddy — Daddy, *thank* you —"

Treville rumbles and wraps his boy up tight. "You're going to spoil me if you keep thanking me for things I desperately want to do, son." 

"I'm thanking you for taking *care* of me, Daddy —" 

"Like I said..." 

Porthos grunts — and stares a little. 

Treville licks his cheek. "I know I'm moving... fast. I know I'm asking a lot of you —" 

"Don't — don't." 

"Son?" 

"Don't take anything *back*, Daddy. I just — I want *everything* you're offering me!" 

"Even though you've frozen up a couple of times?" 

"Don't pay any *attention* to that. I want — even if you *weren't* my *father*, I'd bloody want you to *keep* me." 

Treville growls. "Son..."

"Everything — everything about you, Daddy. Everything. And I didn't *really* think about this when I was fantasizing about bending for someone — not all the way through — but I would've. If I could've imagined something this *good*." 

Treville pants — 

Growls — 

"*Yeah*, Daddy —" 

"I *love* you!" 

"And I love you, Daddy. And I'm yours. You can do what you *want* with me — because somehow I know you won't do anything *wrong*." 

"Oh, *son*, I —" Treville growls again and grips Porthos's chin. 

"Nnh — yeah, Daddy?"

"Tell me. Tell me where I'm taking you *tonight*." 

"Just — tonight?" 

"We'll have to get you set up properly in both places sooner or later, but I will do my *damnedest* to make sure we do that on a schedule that works for *you*. Now, tell me." 

Porthos moans. "Then — which place will let me meet... meet the rest of the family soonest?" 

Treville grins. "They're all *going* to converge on wherever *you* are, son." 

"Uh — really?" 

"We all loved your mother — though Marie-Angelique didn't get much time with her before the end."

Porthos swallows. "Would there be a way to meet... some of them? As opposed to all of them at once?" 

"Absolutely, son. We'll take you back to my rooms in the city and I'll send messages to your Uncles Kitos and Reynard. They met your mother first, after all."

"Oh — yeah?" 

Treville rumbles a laugh. "They saw her in that teahouse and *immediately* tried to make time with her —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"And she told them what they could do with themselves — in great detail, apparently —" 

Porthos laughs hard — 

Treville grins and kisses him. "They were enchanted, and kept coming back. And then they dragged me along with them — they thought having me along might impress her —" 

"Because of the buggery or the drunkenness?" 

"Maybe both? They never did manage to explain that one fully to me —" 

Porthos snickers like the boy he is. 

"We had a grand time, son. Your mother told countless filthy jokes, and we just came right back at her. She knew right away that I *wanted* Kitos and Reynard, and that I hadn't yet been honest about that, and she was... gentle. I went home with her that night. We talked all night about the stupidity of men who couldn't see what was right in front of their faces, and she fed me *her* food, and *her* tea, which kept me going right up until it was time to get to the garrison. And I went back to that teahouse... all the time.

"And then just to her rooms." 

"*You* loved her right away." 

"I did — even though it took being bound to her to *really* see her, and see just how much she loved me. She was still my sister, only better, because I hadn't grown up with her. Siblings who grow up with each other often spend far too much time fighting about the stupidest possible things." 

Porthos settles back in his arms a little more. "You and my mum... didn't fight?" 

"Not like that. I tried to get her to stop working and let me be her patron — that was a fight. I tried to get her to break with Belgard and let *me* be her patron — that was another fight. I tried to get her to break with Belgard and let Laurent smooth things over so there wouldn't have to be any big messes — that was a *big* fight —" 

"What? *Why*?" 

Treville smiles wryly. "My Amina-love loved freedom. Maybe more than anything else. When you grow up without it... well. I hated not being able to *give* her things, but I understood. As much as it was possible for someone like me *to* understand." 

Porthos frowns and nods slowly.

Treville licks behind his ear. "Ask." 

"Did you... love her for that, too? Her need to be free?" 

"I loved everything about her. Though... some things drove me madder than others," he says, and laughs ruefully. And licks Porthos again. I could have never had her this way. And that's just one of the many differences between the two of you. 

Porthos gasps — and blushes. 

"The differences are right, son. Laurent would say that they're *correct* — and that's a good-enough word for it. I don't need you to be the same person she was." 

"I — guess I was kind of... uh... right," Porthos says, smiling ruefully and ducking his head. (You're too good at this...) 

Treville rumbles and licks and licks his beautiful boy — before kissing his ear softly. "I'd still prefer you telling me when you're feeling low about something, son. I can intuit some things, but I'm still just a dog who badly needs to make you feel good all the *time*. I'm *going* to miss some things the first *few* times. Don't let my blindness hurt you." 

Porthos flushes more deeply — "Yes, Daddy." 

"Yes?" 

Porthos nods firmly. 

"Good boy," Treville says, and goes back to stroking his boy all over — 

All *over* —

He pauses just to *cup* those perfectly incredible pectoral muscles — 

Porthos *flexes* them — 

"Mmm. You're going to love your Aunt..." 

Porthos blinks and *coughs* — "*Daddy*!" 

Treville laughs... well, like an arsehole. 

A *deviant* arsehole, to be specific...

He was due for it.


	3. When it's Treville, *any* news should be prepared for with strong drink.

Treville is watching his beautiful boy sleep from the doorway of his bedroom — *their* bedroom, for all that Porthos will have a suite of his own — when he feels his brothers enter the house.

Treville's dressed for this — though not armed — because it had seemed like the better part of valor on a *number* of levels — 

He has a *lot* to explain —

And, for now, Porthos can rest. 

Treville jogs down the stairs and heads directly for the study. Alaire already knows to take them there, as opposed to letting them come up to him —

Alaire knows how to make his presence *felt* after years as one of the quartermasters, and trying to tell him that he doesn't have to do absolutely everything *here*... 

Well, he knows how to make his presence felt. 

Treville thanks the man profusely when he gets downstairs — 

"Cook already knows about the new arrangements, sir, as do the maids and everyone else. I've also sent riders to the manor, as well as to Captain de la Fère and to the Comtesse. Everything *will* run smoothly," Alaire says. He makes it sound like a threat to the bollocks of every man on the continent, but Treville, at this point, is reasonably sure that that's just how quartermasters work. 

He nods and claps the man on the shoulder, smiling a little helplessly. 

Alaire nods back and goes, and — 

Treville takes a deep breath and walks into the study. 

Alaire has provided his brothers with a bottle of brandy and glasses, and they are absolutely drinking as they wait for him.

They know him well enough to know that a message that says 'good news; come immediately' can still be something you need to brace for. 

But — 

Reynard growls. "Meneur, *tell* us what the news is!" 

— Treville is grinning helplessly — 

Rumbling and pacing and looking for the right words —

Looking up toward his bedroom where his boy is *slowly* coming awake — 

He can *sense* his father's *agitation* — 

And Treville can't calm down, *yet* — 

Kitos booms a laugh and tosses back his brandy. "Oh, yes, you can! You can calm down and bloody *talk*," he says and combs through his magnificent beard with his thick fingers. It's shot through with just a bit of grey, now, but — 

So is Reynard's hair. 

And Treville had started greying in his *twenties*, and — 

And that just means that maybe, possibly, they're old enough to do this right. 

Doesn't it? 

"Do *what*, meneur?" And Reynard is too impatient to wait for him to use *speech*, and — 

And Treville gives up on trying to find a *good* way to say it, and just — shows them both. Porthos as he'd looked walking into that brothel — 

"Of bloody course you went to a brothel *right* after Laurent yanked your lead — what." 

"Dieu, he looks... that boy..." 

"He looks just like *Amina*!" 

Treville grins. "There's a reason for that, mates." 

They blink at him. 

Treville nods and rumbles and — no, words, words — 

"Yes, *words*, meneur!" 

"Bloody talk!" 

"I knew who he was just — the moment our eyes met. He broke the *enchantment*." 

"*Shit* —" 

"Meneur — are you —" 

"I could *feel* him. I could feel the *bond* between us." 

"Oh — *fuck*, brother, where *is* he?" 

"Sleeping — well. Slowly waking up. He had a long day with his jobs and his classes —" 

"He takes classes? What — what has he been *doing*, meneur? Where has he *been*?" 

Treville shudders and raises his hands. "You know Amina disappeared into the Court of Miracles —" 

"Oui, we could never —" 

"— bloody get *in* there —" 

"Exactly. That's where he came up." 

"*Merde*. Even after he lost his mother?" 

"*Yes*. Amina — she found another death-mage to work for while she was there —" 

"Bloody buggering — " 

"No, no — a good one," Treville says, and gestures for peace again. 

"There are *good* ones, meneur?" 

"Everything is balance, Reynard. You know that." 

"I — *fine*. But what did your boy do after *Amina* died?" 

"Yejide — the death-mage Amina found — cared for him and some of the other orphans around, in return for their help with her magery and errands and the like. I — he's been working hard his whole *life*, mates." 

"Oui, oui —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"But..." 

"Mm?" 

Reynard raises his eyebrows. "You found him in a *brothel*?" 

Treville grins. "That I did. He works there as a guard on the weekends — and freely and easily and *pointedly* pointed out that working there other ways paid better." 

Reynard wags his head and nods — 

Kitos booms another laugh. "That it *does*. So he pays his own way for things, does our boy?" 

"That's the best part," Treville says, and grins. "He was paying to *educate* himself. To *train* himself so he could eventually become a *Musketeer*." 

And the look of wonder on Kitos's and Reynard's faces — 

Of *joy* — 

Treville grins more and nods — 

"Did he —" 

"He *wants* —" 

"Did Amina —" 

"You said she was — she was *hobbled*, meneur, that she could not talk about her *past* —" 

"She *couldn't* — not enough. But the very *last* story she told our boy, our wonderful boy — and he *is* wonderful, so brave and bold and *smart* and generous and — and everything *else* — was one about *us*. The three of *us*." 

"Dieu..." 

"Shit, *really*?"

"*Yes*. She — she *described* us to him. She called us her *brothers*. She —" And Treville — can't. "She talked about how much she loved me," he says, and smiles ruefully. 

"Oh, *Fearless* —" 

"Yeah, I —" But that's as much as he can get out before Kitos is hugging him fiercely — 

Squeezing the breath out of him — 

Reynard comes to *help*— and the only thing to do is settle into it. Take it, and feel it, and love his brothers so *much* — 

Kitos and Reynard kiss him, pet him — 

"We've got you, Fearless —" 

"We will not let *go*." 

Treville sighs into it — 

"That's got it...." 

Reynard kisses his cheek again and squeezes him just a little tighter. 

"It was so good sharing memories with him," Treville says. 

"Oh... I wish to do this!" And Reynard strokes Treville faster — 

"We *both* have direct memories of Amina you don't have, Fearless —" 

"He'll take them gratefully. He — he said it made him feel like he'd had her for longer than he did." 

Reynard makes a low, hurt noise. "We must have him. We must hold our *boy* —" 

"We have so much *for* —" Kitos thunders a *little* laugh. "You know, I have toys and things for him for every birthday..." 

Treville's *heart* seizes — "You — you —" 

"Ah, oui," Reynard says. "We did not know when he would be *found*. We had to be *prepared*." 

Treville *clutches* them — 

"Aw, Fearless —" 

"Meneur, what did you *expect* —" 

And Treville... floods them. *Gives* them his emotions, his needs, his *roil* of feelings from the time he *met* his beautiful boy — 

"Oui, oui, it must have been —" 

— including the feelings that were just a little more... fucked. 

"Uh. Fearless?" 

The feelings that had *driven* him — 

"Meneur — did you —" 

He shares it all, every moment. 

He shares Porthos's earnest seduction and his own *helpless* hunger. He shares his pushing — and the way he'd given Porthos a ring that would allow him to *track* him — 

"Oui, oui, this is prudent, but —" 

"Fearless, did you —" 

He — shares. 

"Aw, *shit*."

He shares it all, and he can feel his boy getting dressed at speed — 

"*Meneur* —" 

He shares it *all*, and he steps back — 

Back and back — 

But he can't cover his face. 

He can't — 

He's not ashamed of himself. He's too in love for that. 

(Daddy...) 

Shh, son, I'll handle this — 

(But if they're hacked-off at you for this —) 

Then it's my responsibility to deal with it, son —

(Not alone. Not if I really do deserve the ring you put on my finger.) 

And that was — just as pointed and heavy and *solid* as nearly everything else Porthos has said tonight. 

And Porthos doesn't yet know how to put up privacy walls. He — 

(Oh. They... heard me?) 

Treville smiles ruefully. Yes, son. It's all right, they're not going to be angry with you — 

And Kitos clears his throat, inside and out. (That's right, lad. You've done nothing wrong —) 

(Oui, you *deserve* your own opinions, your own — your own... ah...) 

And Porthos walks into the study. His hair's a little wild from sleep, and he's still wearing his clothes from earlier. Treville has nothing that would fit him quite right here, as all of *his* older clothes are at the manor. 

Treville makes a note to have a tailor brought in as soon as possible — just in case Alaire hasn't already done it.

Porthos smiles wryly. "You're thinking about a tailor *now*, Daddy?" 

"You need the best of everything. *Everything*." 

Porthos snorts and nods toward Kitos and Reynard. "How about we talk with your brothers *first*?" 

"I —" 

Kitos booms another laugh — 

Porthos blinks for it — 

"You're not a shy lad at all, are you?" 

"No. I'm not," Porthos says, and lifts his chin a little. "You're his brothers. You *know* him —" 

"Oui, we —" 

"Like my own ugly mug!" 

"Then you already knew what *kind* of man he was, and how he was about boys — and boys like *me*." 

"There are no boys like you," Treville says, moving close and cupping his shoulder. "And this still isn't —" 

"Daddy." 

"Hmm. Are *you* yanking my lead, son?" 

Reynard is staring. 

Porthos is *blushing* — 

And Kitos is laughing hard enough to make that wonderful belly of his quake. "He really is, Fearless! I can see Amina in him all *over*!"

Porthos blushes *harder* — "I — I just don't want —" 

"You do not want us to be angry at your father for what he has done with you," Reynard says, and gestures for peace. "But — you must understand —" 

"That I'm not *like* the *legions* of other boys he's tumbled and you've been fine about? That I'm *special*?" 

Reynard's expression quirks. "Oui." 

"Yeah, that's about the size of it, lad," Kitos says. 

Treville licks Porthos's temple. "You're my son, and, to them, that makes you one of the most important boys in the world." 

"I —" Porthos frowns and turns to him. "You're saying you don't *mind* them being hacked-off with you." 

"Not at all, son. I'm not ashamed of what we have, and I'm in *love* with you, but you have to understand — I will *always* be willing to step *back* for your comfort. For your *happiness* —" 

"No —" 

"*Yes*, son. Because your happiness is the most important thing." 

Porthos frowns. "I don't — I could never give you up, Daddy. I don't like that you *could* give *me* up." 

Reynard inhales sharply — 

Treville squeezes Porthos's shoulder firmly — 

Porthos grunts — 

"I wouldn't be giving you up, son." 

"But —" 

"I wouldn't. Be giving you. Up. I would be waiting and hoping and begging as silently as I could — desperate and needy — for the day you said you wanted me again." 

Porthos shudders and croons, little ears twitching — 

Treville reaches to stroke one. "Do you understand?" 

Porthos swallows — and nods. 

Reynard makes a small sound again — "You should not seduce your *son*, meneur." 

"I want him to," Porthos says, and doesn't look away from Treville's eyes. "I want him to do it all the time. He's bloody *good* at it —" 

"We *know* he is, lad —" 

"No, I, Kitos — can I call you Kitos?"

And Kitos and Reynard share a look — 

A rueful look — 

"I *don't* have to —" 

"That's not it, lad," Kitos says — 

"Non, non, we —" And Reynard laughs ruefully. "We have both dreamed of you calling us *Uncle*." 

Porthos blinks — 

And Treville strokes his ear again. "I told you you had a family." 

"I — fuck, but — you two don't *know* me —" 

"We know you better by the *second*," Reynard says, and smiles *sharply*. 

"You're a sharp lad, and a mouthy one —" 

"Oui, this is true. And you're a *loyal* one — we like this very much!" 

"Of course I'm bloody —" 

"And you're bold as *brass*, just like your Daddy said," Kitos says — 

"Look, I —" 

"And..." Reynard smiles *wryly*. "You know what you want." 

"Yes, I bloody *do*," Porthos says. "Just — would Daddy really *be* your brother if he was the kind of man to seduce without backing up what he said with honesty? With real *feeling*?" 

Reynard raises an eyebrow. "He has dallied with many boys, Porthos." 

"Did he *lie* to them? Did he say he'd keep them forever and ever?" 

"*Non* —" 

"*Fuck*, no —" 

"Did he take them home only to kick them *out* —" 

"*Merde*, Porthos —" 

"Yeah, that. See, my friends — the people I came up with — it's like I told Daddy. They'd be after me to *test* him. To see if he was *really* all he said he was. If he really wanted to *give* me what he said he did —" 

Kitos growls like a gathering *storm*. "Of *course* he does! He's been — we've *all* been going starkers without you for fifteen *years*!" 

"Yeah," Porthos says. *Calmly*. "I know that. I *feel* that. I feel *everything* — from him. 's *why* I want him to seduce me all the time. It makes everything *else* I feel make *sense*. It makes the... the bloody *waves* of it pull me in — instead of just drowning me." 

Treville frowns. "It's... too much?" 

"In *good* ways, Daddy. You know that," Porthos says, and rubs his cheek against Treville's wrist. "'s just a little overwhelming, too." 

And Kitos and Reynard are giving him *that* look. 

That *question*. 

Porthos frowns and lifts his nose instinctively. "What —" 

"Shh," Treville says. "They want to know how much of what's between us is the *magic* between us." 

"Oh. Hunh. I don't know. I really *liked* you even when you were just talking to me down in the sitting room. Just — the way you *were* with me. I liked the way you *were*. Your — personality." 

Treville grins. "Thank you, son. I love everything about you." 

"Aw, Daddy —" 

"Though we'll have to make it easier for you to accept compliments." 

"Ne sais pas, meneur..." 

"Yeah, Fearless, you're bloody awful at it, yourself." 

Treville blinks. 

"This could be, you know, a family resemblance," Reynard says, and pulls on a mock-sage expression. 

Kitos nods judiciously — 

And they are... also pulling on acceptance. 

They are *working* to accept, and to take them both *in* — 

To *have* them — 

There's a *plea* under all the arsheholishness in their eyes — 

(Oh. Daddy?)

Treville grips Porthos's shoulder. "Brothers. It's — it's not that you're *wrong*." 

"*Daddy* —" 

"*Fearless* —" 

"Meneur, you must *let* us —" 

"I *will*," Treville says. "I bloody will. But I have to — you have to understand that *I* understand this, that I will *never* stop thinking about what Amina would say about this, how she might *feel* —" 

"*Yes*, and we —" Kitos growls and turns to Porthos. "She was our sister, lad. We loved her like no other woman on the planet — until Marie-Angelique came along, and taught us that we could have *two* sisters. When we lost her, we *all* went mad. Not like your Daddy — he lost a part of his *soul* — but *still*. She..." Kitos smiles ruefully. "Fox-face and I.... we'll never marry. We'll never have *legitimate* children of our own, though fox-face cares for his bastards when the mothers let him know about them. So far, there've apparently been none for me. I... I say that because *you* were ours. You and Laurent's boys, but *especially* you, because Fearless and Amina were especially *ours*. 

"And here you are, looking like Amina and having all the best parts of her, shouting us down and wanting to be *one* of us someday... well. We have no real *right* to you, lad, but... d'you see?"

Porthos shivers — and nods. "I — I see." 

Kitos grins. "So you won't be hacked-off at us for getting overprotective?"

"Oui, we — we did not have you when you were a *boy*, homme puissante —" 

Porthos *coughs* — 

And Reynard's grin is rueful and wry at once. "We... have much to catch up on." 

Porthos licks his lips and nods again. "I — I'll just... um. I understand." 

"Oui? And you will let us be your Uncles?" 

Porthos blushes *deeply* — "It — it's harder..." 

"It'll be easier when you can feel them, son — as opposed to hearing and feeling them *through* me." 

"What — oh. *Oh*. You mean — I could share blood with them." 

Treville smiles. "That's right. You have more than enough power to make that work now, son." 

Porthos grins, looking up that little distance — and then turns back to Kitos and Reynard. "I don't suppose either of you are secretly really dangerous blood-mages?" 

Reynard blinks — 

And Kitos laughs hard — and wags a finger. "You watch that, lad! You know we can't protect you from that sort of thing." 

"No, but — Daddy can," Porthos says, and stands tall and proud and beautiful as he reaches for Treville's blade. 

Treville rumbles and hands it over. "I always will, son. And I'll teach *you* how to protect *all* of us."

Porthos grins wider. "Yes, Daddy," he says, and slashes his arm — 

Kitos does the same with his own arm — 

And Porthos and Kitos drink at the same time, Kitos reflexively steadying Porthos even though he doesn't seem to need it in the least. 

He — 

(Oh — *oh* —) 

(Do you feel me properly, lad?)

(You... you've been *waiting* for me....) 

(And hoping. And wishing. And... a lot of other things,) Kitos says, and pulls back with a wry smile — 

Porthos pulls back, too, and there's a wondering look on his face —

Treville moves in and licks Kitos's wound healed — 

"Oh — I have to —" 

"There is no rush, homme puissante," Reynard says, smiling warmly and tossing his blade from hand to hand — 

"Yes, there *is*! I — I need to *feel*!" 

Reynard inhales sharply — and nods, slashing his arm — 

Porthos drinks and gives Reynard his arm at once — 

Reynard drinks and cups Porthos's strong shoulder — 

And Reynard is even more insistent than Kitos had been, Reynard is *giving* his need to Porthos, his ache of *loss*, his grief for his brothers and for *himself* — 

Porthos shudders *hard* and drinks more, more and more *deeply* — 

(I — I have to *know* all this, Daddy —) 

(We will never hide from you, homme puissante...) 

(Not *ever*,) Kitos says. 

Listen to them, son. *Always* listen. They're your *family*. 

Porthos moans and pulls *back* — "Is this — is this what I can expect from *everyone* in the family?" 

Reynard pulls back and laughs happily, madly, tosses his hair — 

Treville heals their wounds — 

And Kitos hums and strokes through his beard mock-thoughtfully. "Well, lad..." 

"I — I — *what*? What is it?" 

"Our Laurent, he is a bit more passionate than most..." 

Porthos *stares*. 

And Reynard snickers like a boy before cupping Porthos's face and kissing his cheeks and mouth. "Welcome *home*, homme puissante." 

"That's *right*," Kitos says, and pulls Porthos into a hug that Reynard immediately joins. 

Treville hangs back — 

Kitos and Reynard *glare* at him —

Treville laughs quietly and *doesn't* hang back, hugging his brothers and his son — 

Hugging his *loves* — 

"Merde, we should have known. Family for notre meneur has always worked *one* way," Reynard says, and kisses Treville's cheek *hard*. 

Treville — can say nothing to that — 

Kitos thunders laughter, shaking all of them. "Too right, you can't! You're a *predictable* deviant!" And Kitos ruffles his *hair* like they're still *recruits* — 

But Porthos's scents are... warm. Pleased. Calm. *Happy* — 

Porthos is *relaxed* in their arms — 

"I like this family, Daddy," he says, and squeezes Kitos a little harder. 

Kitos makes the noise that tends to mean someone is dangerously close to being picked *up* and squeezed — 

"Um?"

"I'll restrain myself this time, lad," Kitos says, and laughs ruefully, hugging all of them and kissing the top of Porthos's head. "We all need to hold you right now." 

Porthos sighs. "Did you all... hug my mum like this?" 

Reynard hums. "She saved *this* for notre meneur, homme puissante — generally." 

"Yeah, generally, lad," Kitos says. "She would play with my hair when I'd go to visit her of an evening, though." 

"Oh — yeah?" 

Kitos laughs. "*Guaranteeing* I would never cut it. She would braid it and unbraid it while I ate her food and told her stories — or she told *me* stories. Or sang to me." 

"I *loved* her singing," Porthos says, and sighs.

"Here," Reynard says, and shares a memory of Amina rumbling a song into his ear while he lay in her bed recovering from too much drink, and slurred out endless whispered compliments in his thick, country accent.

"*Oh* —" 

Treville rumbles. "Where was I...?"

"You and Kitos, you were fixing one of her kitchen chairs —" 

"Oh — shit," Kitos says, and laughs hard again. "We broke it worse *twice* first!" 

Treville coughs. "Why did she *tolerate* us?" 

"You do have that tongue, Fearless — oh — *shit* —" 

But Porthos is snickering hard — 

"I'm *sorry* —" 

Actually *wheezing* a little —

"*Fuck* —" And Kitos is trying to pull *back* — 

So Treville shares some of the things he and Porthos had reminisced about... during. 

"*Meneur*!"

"Bloody buggering —" And Kitos *whallops* him — 

Porthos has started *guffawing* — 

"Oh, but —" 

"He laughs like his *mother*," Reynard says, and looks like he wants to kiss Porthos again. 

Kitos just looks like he wants to coo. 

Treville...

Treville turns to his boy and drinks in his comfort, his wild amusement at how *ridiculous* they all are —

His happiness with that.

And Treville isn't suddenly overjoyed about his looming promotion, or the painfully *deliberate* loss of his youth and everything that had come with it... but it's all a lot less important now. It's an insect, easy to ignore in the face of the *roar* that is Porthos. 

His son.

His *son* —

"You know, verrat, we could probably get him to make even more entertaining noises if we told him some of the things Amina said about notre meneur." 

Kitos sighs with happiness and pours them *all* brandy, handing a glass to Porthos first. "Drink up, lad. You're not going to be able to breathe, soon." 

"Oh — fuck —" 

"Now, first off, the teahouse where she worked was right in the middle of a hostler, a bakery, and a blacksmith — so there were boys running around the neighbourhood *all* the time." 

"Ah, oui. *Very* pretty," Reynard says, and sits down with his brandy. 

Treville grins and sits down, too.

They might as well wait up for Laurent. 

end.


End file.
